ing world would deem a trivial matter) the postmastership of
Brampton. And Worthington's first move in the game would be to attempt
to capture for his faction the support of the Administration itself.

Jethro thought the view from Thousand Acre Hill, especially in
September, to be one of the sublimest efforts of the Creator. It was
September, first of the purple months in Coniston, not the red-purple of
the Maine coast, but the blue-purple of the mountain, the color of the
bloom on the Concord grape. His eyes, sweeping the mountain from
the notch to the granite ramp of the northern buttress, fell on the
weather-beaten little farmhouse in which he had lived for many years,
and rested lovingly on the orchard, where the golden early apples shone
among the leaves. But Jethro was not looking at the apples.

"Cynthy," he called out abruptly, "h-how'd you like to go to
Washington?"

"Washington!" exclaimed Cynthia. "When?"

"N-now--to-morrow." Then he added uneasily, "C-can't you get ready?"

Cynthia laughed.

"Why, I'll go to-night, Uncle Jethro," she answered.

"Well," he said admiringly, "you hain't one of them clutterin' females.
We can get some finery for you in New York, Cynthy. D-don't want any of
them town ladies to put you to shame. Er--not that they would," he added
hastily--"not that they would."

Cynthia climbed up beside him on the haystack.

"Uncle Jethro," she said solemnly, "when you make a senator or a judge,
I don't interfere, do I?"

He looked at her uneasily, for there were moments when he could not for
the life of him make out her drift.

"N-no," he assented, "of course not, Cynthy."

"Why is it that I don't interfere?"

"I callate," answered Jethro, still more uneasily, "I callate it's
because you're a woman."

"And don't you think," asked Cynthia, "that a woman ought to know what
becomes her best?"

Jethro reflected, and then his glance fell on her approvingly.

"G-guess you're right, Cynthy," he said. "I always had some success in
dressin' up Listy, and that kind of set me up."

On such occasions he spoke of his wife quite simply. He had been
genuinely fond of her, although she was no more than an episode in his
life. Cynthia smiled to herself as they walked through the orchard to
the place where the horse was tied, but she was a little remorseful.
This feeling, on the drive homeward, was swept away by sheer elation at
the prospect of the trip before her. She had often dreamed of th