“I was going to ask Miss Bruce to take me in,” said Cynthia.

“No you hain’t, anything of the kind,” said Ephraim, indignantly.  “I’ve got a little house up the street, and a room all ready for you.”

“Will you let me share expenses, Cousin Eph?”

“I’ll let you do anything you want,” said he, “so’s you come.  Don’t you think she’d ought to come and take care of an old man, Mr. Satterlee?”

Mr. Satterlee turned.  He had been contemplating, during this conversation, a life-size print of General Grant under two crossed flags, that was hung conspicuously on the wall.

“I do not think you could do better, Cynthia,” he answered, smiling.  The minister liked Ephraim, and he liked a little joke, occasionally.  He felt that one would not be, particularly out of place just now; so he repeated, “I do not think you could do better than to accept the offer of Colonel Prescott.”

Ephraim grew very red, as was his wont when twitted about his new title.  He took things literally.

“I hain’t a colonel, no more than you be, Mr. Satterlee.  But the boys down here will have it so.”

Three days later, by the early train which leaves the state capital at an unheard-of hour in the morning, a young man arrived in Brampton.  His jaw seemed squarer than ever to the citizens who met the train out of curiosity, and to Mr. Dodd, who was expecting a pump; and there was a set look on his face like that of a man who is going into a race or a fight.  Mr. Dodd, though astonished, hastened toward him.

“Well, this is unexpected, Bob,” said he.  “How be you?  Harvard College failed up?”

For Mr. Dodd never let slip a chance to assure a member of the Worthington family of his continued friendship.

“How are you, Mr. Dodd?” answered Bob, nodding at him carelessly, and passing on.  Mr. Dodd did not dare to follow.  What was young Worthington doing in Brampton, and his father in the West on that railroad business?  Filled with curiosity, Mr. Dodd forgot his pump, but Bob was already striding into Brampton Street, carrying his bag.  If he had stopped for a few moments with the hardware dealer, or chatted with any of the dozen people who bowed and stared at him, he might have saved himself a good deal of trouble.  He turned in at the Worthington mansion, and rang the bell, which was answered by Sarah, the housemaid.

“Mr. Bob!” she exclaimed.

“Where’s Mrs. Holden?” he asked.

Mrs. Holden was the elderly housekeeper.  She had gone, unfortunately, to visit a bereaved relative; unfortunately for Bob, because she, too, might have told him something.

“Get me some breakfast, Sarah.  Anything,” he commanded, “and tell Silas to hitch up the black trotters to my cutter.”

Sarah, though in consternation, did as she was bid.  The breakfast was forthcoming, and in half an hour Silas had the black trotters at the door.  Bob got in without a word, seized the reins, the cutter flew down Brampton Street (observed by many of the residents thereof) and turned into the Coniston road.  Silas said nothing.  Silas, as a matter of fact, never did say anything.  He had been the Worthington coachman for five and twenty years, and he was known in Brampton as Silas the Silent.  Young Mr. Worthington had no desire to talk that morning.