Cynthia a nice, modest
girl, with no airs of superiority.

They had some journeys about. They went up to the bay of Fundy and
cruised around, chatting with fishermen and French settlers in their odd
costumes, looked at their funny little huts, and were amazed at the
children rolling round in the sand and the sun. Cousin Chilian talked to
them, but their language was a sort of patois difficult to understand.

After that Cynthia was much interested in the French and English war.
And the whole country was watching the Corsican who had made himself
master of half of Europe.

"It is a wonderful world," Cynthia said when they were safe in the study
again. "And I wonder if it is narrow and selfish to be glad that you are
just you?"

He was amused at the idea. But he couldn't recall that he had ever been
anxious to change with any one.

"And that _you_ are just _you_. I couldn't like any one else as well,
not even Cousin Giles, and I do like him very much."

Chilian felt a rise of color stealing up his cheek. The preference was
sweet, for Cousin Giles was extremely indulgent to her, and he was not a
child enthusiast either.

In those days no one supposed parents and friends were put in the world
purposely for children's pleasure. They didn't even consider they came
for _their_ pleasure. It was right to have them, they were to be the
future men and women, workers, legislators, and homemakers. They didn't
always have easy times, nor their own way, and they were not thought to
be wiser than their parents, even in the choice of professions for life.
But there were many fine brave fellows among the boys, and the girls
went on, making pretty good wives and mothers. If life did not bring
them just what they wished, they accepted it and did the best they
could.

Anthony Drayton came to make Cousin Chilian a visit and pass an
examination for Harvard. With a little help he had worked his way
through the academy. He was one of the brave, resolute boys, and, though
it grieved him to go against his father's wishes, he had decided for
himself.

"I really could not bury myself on a farm," he confessed. "I want a
wider life, I want to mix with men and take an interest in the country.
Not that I despise farming, and if one could branch out and do many new
things, but to keep on year after year in the old rut, corn and
potatoes, wheat and rye--just as grandfather did. What is the use of a
man living if he can't strike out some new w