“Of course I will!”

“C-call to mind the first book you read to me, Cynthy?”

“It was ‘Robinson Crusoe,’” she said.

“‘R-Robinson Crusoe.’  Often thought of that book.  Know some of it by heart.  R-read it again, sometime, Cynthy?”

She looked up at him a little anxiously.  His eyes were on the great hill opposite, across Coniston Water.

“I will, indeed, Uncle Jethro, if we can find it,” she answered.

“Guess I can find it,” said Jethro.  “R-remember when you saw him makin’ a ship?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, “and I had my feet in the pool.”

The book had made a profound impression upon Jethro, partly because Cynthia had first read it to him, and partly for another reason.  The isolation of Crusoe; depicted by Defoe’s genius, had been comparable to his own isolation, and he had pondered upon it much of late.  Yes, and upon a certain part of another book which he had read earlier in life:  Napoleon had ended his days on St. Helena.

They walked out under the trees to the brook-side and stood listening to the tinkling of the cowbells in the wood lot beyond.  The light faded early on these September evenings, and the smoky mist had begun to rise from the water when they turned back again.  The kitchen windows were already growing yellow, and through them the faithful Millicent could be seen bustling about in her preparations for supper.  But Cynthia, having accomplished her errand, would not go in.  She could not have borne to have any one drive back with her to Brampton then, and she must not be late upon the road.

“I will come Friday evening, Uncle Jethro,” she said, as she kissed him and gave one last, lingering look at his face.  Had it been possible, she would not have left him, and on her way to Brampton through the gathering darkness she mused anxiously upon that strange calmness he had shown after defeat.

She drove her horse on to the floor of Mr. Sherman’s stable, that gentleman himself gallantly assisting her to alight, and walked homeward through the lane.  Ephraim had not yet returned from the postoffice, which did not close until eight, and Cynthia smiled when she saw the utensils of his cooking-kit strewn on the hearth.  In her absence he invariably unpacked and used it, and of course Cynthia at once set herself to cleaning and packing it again.  After that she got her own supper—­a very simple affair—­and was putting the sitting room to rights when Ephraim came thumping in.

“Well, I swan!” he exclaimed when he saw her.  “I didn’t look for you to come back so soon, Cynthy.  Put up the kit—­hev you?” He stood in front of the fireplace staring with apparent interest at the place where the kit had been, and added in a voice which he strove to make quite casual, “How be Jethro?”

“He looks older, Cousin Eph,” she answered, after a pause, “and I think he is very tired.  But he seems he seems more tranquil and contented than I hoped to find him.”