very Saturday and Sunday, Uncle Jethro," she said, smiling up
at him. "Saturday is only two days away, now. I can hardly wait."

"Y-you'll come sometime?"

"Uncle Jethro, do you think I'll be away from you, except--except when I
have to?"

"C-come and read to me--won't you--come and read?"

"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.