aring very fixedly at Cynthia. "My dear," she continued kindly,
"you look like some one I used to know a long, long time ago, and I'll be
glad to help you. Your uncle may be sensible enough in other matters, but
I tell him frankly he is out of place here. Let him go away and sit down
somewhere with the other gentleman, and we'll get the dress between us,
if he'll tell us how much to pay."

"P-pay anything, so's you get it," said Jethro.

"Uncle Jethro, do you really want it so much?"

It must not be thought that Cynthia did not wish for a dress, too. But
the sense of dependence on Jethro and the fear of straining his purse
never quite wore off. So Jethro and Ephraim took to a bench at some
distance, and at last a dress was chosen--not one of the gorgeous models
Jethro had picked out, but a pretty, simple, girlish gown which Cynthia
herself had liked and of which the lady highly approved. Not content with
helping to choose it, the lady must satisfy herself that it fit, which it
did perfectly. And so Cynthia was transformed into a city person, though
her skin glowed with a health with which few city people are blessed.

"My dear," said the lady, still staring at her, "you look very well. I
should scarcely have supposed it." Cynthia took the remark in good part,
for she thought the lady a character, which she was. "I hope you will
remember that we women were created for a higher purpose than mere
beauty. The Lord gave us brains, and meant that we should use them. If
you have a good mind, as I believe you have, learn to employ it for the
betterment of your sex, for the time of our emancipation is at hand."
Having delivered this little lecture, the lady continued to stare at her
with keen eyes. "You look very much like someone I used to love when I
was younger. What is your name."

"Cynthia Wetherell."

"Cynthia Wetherell? Was your mother Cynthia Ware, from Coniston?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, amazed.

In an instant the strange lady had risen and had taken Cynthia in her
embrace, new dress and all.

"My dear," she said, "I thought your face had a familiar look. It was
your mother I knew and loved. I'm Miss Lucretia Penniman."

Miss Lucretia Penniman! Could this be, indeed, the authoress of the "Hymn
to Coniston," of whom Brampton was so proud? The Miss Lucretia Penniman
who sounded the first clarion note for the independence of American
women, the friend of Bryant and Hawthorne and Longfellow? Cynthia had
indeed heard