“Oh, Cousin Eph!” exclaimed Cynthia.

The old soldier turned and saw that there were tears in her eyes.  But, stranger than that, Cynthia saw that there were tears in his own.  He took her gently by the arm and led her down the stairs again, she supporting him, and Jethro following.

That same morning, Jethro, whose memory was quite as good as Ephraim’s, found a little shop tucked away in Cornhill which had been miraculously spared in the advance of prosperity.  Mr. Judson’s name, however, was no longer in quaint lettering over the door.  Standing before it, Jethro told the story in his droll way, of a city clerk and a country bumpkin, and Cynthia and Ephraim both laughed so heartily that the people who were passing turned round to look at them and laughed too.  For the three were an unusual group, even in Boston.  It was not until they were seated at dinner in the hotel, Ephraim with his napkin tucked under his chin, that Jethro gave them the key to the characters in this story.

“And who was the locket for, Uncle Jethro?” demanded Cynthia.

Jethro, however, shook his head, and would not be induced to tell.

They were still so seated when Cynthia perceived coming toward them through the crowded dining roam a merry, middle-aged gentleman with a bald head.  He seemed to know everybody in the room, for he was kept busy nodding right and left at the tables until he came to theirs.  He was Mr. Merrill who had come to see her father in Coniston, and who had spoken so kindly to her on that occasion.

“Well, well, well,” he said; “Jethro, you’ll be the death of me yet.  ‘Don’t write-send,’ eh?  Well, as long as you sent word you were here, I don’t complain.  So you licked ’em again, eh—­down in Washington?  Never had a doubt but what you would.  Is this the new postmaster?  How are you, Mr. Prescott—­and Cynthia—­a young lady!  Bless my soul,” said Mr. Merrill, looking her over as he shook her hand.  “What have you done to her, Jethro?  What kind of beauty powder do they use in Coniston?”

Mr. Merrill took the seat next to her and continued to talk, scattering his pleasantries equally among the three, patting her arm when her own turn came.  She liked Mr. Merrill very much; he seemed to her (as, indeed, he was) honest and kind-hearted.  Cynthia was not lacking in a proper appreciation of herself—­that may have been discovered.  But she was puzzled to know why this gentleman should make it a point to pay such particular attention to a young country girl.  Other railroad presidents whom she could name had not done so.  She was thinking of these things, rather than listening to Mr. Merrill’s conversation, when the sound of Mr. Worthington’s name startled her.

“Well, Jethro,” Mr. Merrill was saying, “you certainly nipped this little game of Worthington’s in the bud.  Thought he’d take you in the rear by going to Washington, did he?  Ha, ha!  I’d like to know how you did it.  I’ll get you to tell me to-night—­see if I don’t.  You’re all coming in to supper to-night, you know, at seven o’clock.”