“Well, if you have time and there’s any other little thing, I’m in Room 29,” said Mr. Sutton, as he put his foot on the stairway.

“T-told Worthington you got that app’intment for Wheelock—­t-told Worthington?” Jethro called out after him.

Mr. Sutton turned and waved his cigar and smiled in acknowledgment of this parting bit of satire.  He felt that he could afford to smile.  A few minutes later he was ensconced on the sofa of a private sitting room reviewing the incident, with much gusto, for the benefit of Mr. Isaac D. Worthington and Mr. Alexander Duncan.  Both of these gentlemen laughed heartily, for the Honorable Heth Sutton knew the art of telling a story well, at least, and was often to be seen with a group around him in the lobbies of Congress.

CHAPTER VI

About five o’clock that afternoon Ephraim was sitting in his shirt-sleeves by the window of his room, and Cynthia was reading aloud to him an article (about the war, of course) from a Washington paper, which his friend, Mr. Beard, had sent him.  There was a knock at the door, and Cynthia opened it to discover a colored hall-boy with a roll in his hand.

“Mistah Ephum Prescott?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Ephraim, “that’s me.”

Cynthia shut the door and gave him the roll, but Ephraim took it as though he were afraid of its contents.

“Guess it’s some of them war records from Amasy,” he said.

“Oh, Cousin Eph,” exclaimed Cynthia, excitedly, “why don’t you open it?  If you don’t I will.”

“Guess you’d better, Cynthy,” and he held it out to her with a trembling hand.

Cynthia did open it, and drew out a large document with seals and printing and signatures.

“Cousin Eph,” she cried, holding it under his nose, “Cousin Eph, you’re postmaster of Brampton!”

Ephraim looked at the paper, but his eyes swam, and he could only make out a dancing, bronze seal.

“I want to know!” he exclaimed.  “Fetch Jethro.”

But Cynthia had already flown on that errand.  Curiously enough, she ran into Jethro in the hall immediately outside of Ephraim’s door.  Ephraim got to his feet; it was very difficult for him to realize that his troubles were ended, that he was to earn his living at last.  He looked at Jethro, and his eyes filled with tears.  “I guess I can’t thank you as I’d ought to, Jethro,” he said, “leastways, not now.”

“I’ll thank him for you, Cousin Eph,” said Cynthia.  And she did.

“D-don’t thank me,” said Jethro, “I didn’t have much to do with it, Eph.  Thank the President.”

Ephraim did thank the President, in one of the most remarkable letters, from a literary point of view, ever received at the White House.  For the art of literature largely consists in belief in what one is writing, and Ephraim’s letter had this quality of sincerity, and no lack of vividness as well.  He spent most of the evening in composing it.