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 of her.  Did not all Brampton point to the house which had held the Social Library as to a shrine?

“Cynthia,” said Miss Lucretia, “I have a meeting now of a girls’ charity to which I must go, but you will come to me at the offices of the Woman’s Hour to-morrow morning at ten.  I wish to talk to you about your mother and yourself.”

Cynthia promised, provided they did not leave for Coniston earlier, and in that event agreed to write.  Whereupon Miss Lucretia kissed her again and hurried off to her meeting.  On the way back to the Tremont House Cynthia related excitedly the whole circumstance to Jethro and Ephraim.  Ephraim had heard of Miss Lucretia, of course.  Who had not?  But he did not read the Woman’s Hour.  Jethro was silent.  Perhaps he was thinking of that fresh summer morning, so long ago, when a girl in a gig had overtaken him in the canon made by the Brampton road through the woods.  The girl had worn a poke bonnet, and was returning a book to this same Miss Lucretia Penniman’s Social Library.  And the book was the “Life of Napoleon Bonaparte.”