N-not a great deal?"
Jethro observed at last.

Wetherell flushed, although Jethro had merely stated a truth which had
often occurred to the storekeeper himself.

"It isn't given to all of us to find Rome in brick and leave it in
marble," he replied a little sadly.

Jethro Bass looked at him quickly.

"Er-what's that?" he demanded. "F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble.
Fine thought." He ruminated a little. "Never writ anything--did
you--never writ anything?"

"Nothing worth publishing," answered poor William Wetherell.

"J-just dreamed'--dreamed and kept store. S--something to have
dreamed--eh--something to have dreamed?"

Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation
had taken. It seemed very strange to him that he was at last face to face
again wish the man whom Cynthia Ware had never been able to drive from
her heart. Would, he mention her? Had he continued to love her, in spite
of the woman he had married and adorned? Wetherell asked himself these
questions before he spoke.

"It is more to have accomplished," he said.

"S-something to have dreamed," repeated Jethro, rising slowly from the
counter. He went toward the doorway that led into the garden, and there
he halted and stood listening.

"C-Cynthy!" he said, "C-Cynthy!"

Wetherell dropped his pen at the sound of the name on Jethro's lips. But
it was little Cynthia he was calling little Cynthia in the garden. The
child came at his voice, and stood looking up at him silently.

"H-how old be you, Cynthy?"

"Nine," answered Cynthia, promptly.

"L-like the country, Cynthy--like the country better than the city?"

"Oh, yes," said Cynthia.

"And country folks? L--like country folks better than city folks?"

"I didn't know many city folks," said Cynthia. "I liked the old doctor
who sent Daddy up here ever so much, and I liked Mrs. Darwin."

"Mis' Darwin?"

"She kept the house we lived in. She used to give me cookies," said
Cynthia, "and bread to feed the pigeons."

"Pigeons? F-folks keep pigeons in the city?"

"Oh, no," said Cynthia, laughing at such an idea; "the pigeons came on
the roof under our window, and they used to fly right up on the
window-sill and feed out of my hand. They kept me company while Daddy,
was away, working. On Sundays we used to go into the Common and feed
them, before Daddy got sick. The Common was something like the country,
only not half as nice."

"C-couldn't pick flowers in the Common