Cynthia climbed up beside him on the haystack.

“Uncle Jethro,” she said solemnly, “when you make a senator or a judge, I don’t interfere, do I?”

He looked at her uneasily, for there were moments when he could not for the life of him make out her drift.

“N-no,” he assented, “of course not, Cynthy.”

“Why is it that I don’t interfere?”

“I callate,” answered Jethro, still more uneasily, “I callate it’s because you’re a woman.”

“And don’t you think,” asked Cynthia, “that a woman ought to know what becomes her best?”

Jethro reflected, and then his glance fell on her approvingly.

“G-guess you’re right, Cynthy,” he said.  “I always had some success in dressin’ up Listy, and that kind of set me up.”

On such occasions he spoke of his wife quite simply.  He had been genuinely fond of her, although she was no more than an episode in his life.  Cynthia smiled to herself as they walked through the orchard to the place where the horse was tied, but she was a little remorseful.  This feeling, on the drive homeward, was swept away by sheer elation at the prospect of the trip before her.  She had often dreamed of the great world beyond Coniston, and no one, not even Jethro, had guessed the longings to see it which had at times beset her.  Often she had dropped her book to summon up a picture of what a great city was like, to reconstruct the Boston of her early childhood.  She remembered the Mall, where she used to walk with her father, and the row of houses where the rich dwelt, which had seemed like palaces.  Indeed, when she read of palaces, these houses always came to her mind.  And now she was to behold a palace even greater than these,—­and the house where the President himself dwelt.  But why was Jethro going to Washington?

As if in answer to the question, he drove directly to the harness shop instead of to the tannery house.  Ephraim greeted them from within with a cheery hail, and hobbled out and stood between the wheels of the buggy.

“That bridle bust again?” he inquired.

“Er—­Ephraim,” said Jethro, “how long since you b’en away from Coniston—­how long?”

Ephraim reflected.

“I went to Harwich with Moses before that bad spell I had in March,” he answered.

Cynthia smiled from pure happiness, for she began to see the drift of things now.

“H-how long since you’ve b’en in foreign parts?” said Jethro.

“’Sixty-five,” answered Ephraim, with astonishing promptness.

“Er—­like to go to Washington with us to-morrow like to go to Washington?”

Ephraim gasped, even as Cynthia had.

“Washin’ton!” he ejaculated.

“Cynthy and I was thinkin’ of takin’ a little trip,” said Jethro, almost apologetically, “and we kind of thought we’d like to have you with us.  Didn’t we, Cynthy?  Er—­we might see General Grant,” he added meaningly.