All together the evening at Mr. Merrill’s passed off so quickly and so happily that Ephraim was dismayed when he discovered that it was ten o’clock, and he began to make elaborate apologies to the ladies.  But Jethro and Mr. Merrill were still closeted together in the dining room:  once Mrs. Merrill had been called to that conference, and had returned after a while to take her place quietly again among the circle of Ephraim’s listeners.  Now Mr. Merrill came out of the dining room alone.

“Cynthia,” he said, and his tone was a little more grave than usual, “your Uncle Jethro wants to speak to you.”

Cynthia rose, with a sense of something in the air which concerned her, and went into the dining room.  Was it the light falling from above that brought out the lines of his face so strongly?  Cynthia did not know, but she crossed the room swiftly and sat down beside him.

“What is it, Uncle Jethro?”

“C-Cynthy,” he said, putting his hand over hers on the table, “I want you to do something for me er—­for me,” he repeated, emphasizing the last word.

“I’ll do anything in the world for you, Uncle Jethro,” she answered; “you know that.  What—­what is it?”

“L-like Mr. Merrill, don’t you?” “Yes, indeed.”

“L-like Mrs. Merrill—­like the gals—­don’t you?” “Very much,” said Cynthia, perplexedly.

“Like ’em enough to—­to live with ’em a winter?”

“Live with them a winter!”

“C-Cynthy, I want you should stay in Boston this winter and go to a young ladies’ school.”

It was out.  He had said it, though he never quite knew where he had found the courage.

“Uncle Jethro!” she cried.  She could only look at him in dismay, but the tears came into her eyes and sparkled.

“You—­you’ll be happy here, Cynthy.  It’ll be a change for you.  And I shan’t be so lonesome as you’d think.  I’ll—­I’ll be busy this winter, Cynthy.”

“You know that I wouldn’t leave you, Uncle Jethro,” she said reproachfully.  “I should be lonesome, if you wouldn’t.  You would be lonesome—­you know you would be.”

“You’ll do this for me, Cynthy.  S-said you would, didn’t you—­said you would?”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

“W-want you to go to school for a winter, Cynthy.  Shouldn’t think I’d done right by you if I didn’t.”

“But I have been to school.  Daddy taught me a lot, and Mr. Satterlee has taught me a great deal more.  I know as much as most girls of my age, and I will study so hard in Coniston this winter, if that is what you want.  I’ve never neglected my lessons, Uncle Jethro.”

“Tain’t book-larnin’—­’tain’t what you’d get in book larnin’ in Boston, Cynthy.”

“What, then?” she asked.

“Well,” said Jethro, “they’d teach you to be a lady, Cynthy.”

“A lady!”

“Your father come of good people, and—­and your mother was a lady.  I’m only a rough old man, Cynthy, and I don’t know much about the ways of fine folks.  But you’ve got it in ye, and I want you should be equal to the best of ’em:  You can.  And I shouldn’t die content unless I’d felt that you’d had the chance.  Er—­Cynthy—­will you do it for me?”