Ephraim was a New Englander, and not an adept in expressing his emotions.  Both Cynthia and Jethro felt that he would have liked to have said something appropriate if he had known how.  What he actually said was:—­“What time to-morrow?”

“C-callate to take the nine o’clock from Brampton,” said Jethro.

“I’ll report for duty at seven,” said Ephraim, and it was then he squeezed the hand that he found in his.  He watched them calmly enough until they had disappeared in the barn behind the tannery house, and then his thoughts became riotous.  Rumors had been rife that summer, prophecies of changes to come, and the resignation of the old man who had so long been postmaster at Brampton was freely discussed—­or rather the matter of his successor.  As the months passed, Ephraim had heard David Wheelock mentioned with more and more assurance for the place.  He had had many nights when sleep failed him, but it was characteristic of the old soldier that he had never once broached the subject since Jethro had spoken to him two months before.  Ephraim had even looked up the law to see if he was eligible, and found that he was, since Coniston had no post-office, and was within the limits of delivery of the Brampton office.

The next morning Coniston was treated to a genuine surprise.  After loading up at the store, Lem Hallowell, instead of heading for Brampton, drove to the tannery house, left his horses standing as he ran in, and presently emerged with a little cowhide trunk that bore the letter W. Following the trunk came a radiant Cynthia, following Cynthia, Jethro Bass in a stove-pipe hat, with a carpetbag, and hobbling after Jethro, Ephraim Prescott, with another carpet-bag.  It was remarked in the buzz of query that followed the stage’s departure that Ephraim wore the blue suit and the army hat with a cord around it which he kept for occasions.  Coniston longed to follow them, in spirit at least, but even Milly Skinner did not know their destination.

Fortunately we can follow them.  At Brampton station they got into the little train that had just come over Truro Pass, and steamed, with many stops, down the valley of Coniston Water until it stretched out into a wide range of shimmering green meadows guarded by blue hills veiled in the morning haze.  Then, bustling Harwich, and a wait of half an hour until the express from the north country came thundering through the Gap; then a five-hours’ journey down the broad river that runs southward between the hills, dinner in a huge station amidst a pleasant buzz of excitement and the ringing of many bells.  Then into another train, through valleys and factory towns and cities until they came, at nightfall, to the metropolis itself.