ed.

"My dear," said the lady, still staring at her, "you look very well. I
should scarcely have supposed it." Cynthia took the remark in good part,
for she thought the lady a character, which she was. "I hope you will
remember that we women were created for a higher purpose than mere
beauty. The Lord gave us brains, and meant that we should use them. If
you have a good mind, as I believe you have, learn to employ it for the
betterment of your sex, for the time of our emancipation is at hand."
Having delivered this little lecture, the lady continued to stare at her
with keen eyes. "You look very much like someone I used to love when I
was younger. What is your name."

"Cynthia Wetherell."

"Cynthia Wetherell? Was your mother Cynthia Ware, from Coniston?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, amazed.

In an instant the strange lady had risen and had taken Cynthia in her
embrace, new dress and all.

"My dear," she said, "I thought your face had a familiar look. It was
your mother I knew and loved. I'm Miss Lucretia Penniman."

Miss Lucretia Penniman! Could this be, indeed, the authoress of the "Hymn
to Coniston," of whom Brampton was so proud? The Miss Lucretia Penniman
who sounded the first clarion note for the independence of American
women, the friend of Bryant and Hawthorne and Longfellow? Cynthia had
indeed heard of her. Did not all Brampton point to the house which had
held the Social Library as to a shrine?

"Cynthia," said Miss Lucretia, "I have a meeting now of a girls' charity
to which I must go, but you will come to me at the offices of the Woman's
Hour to-morrow morning at ten. I wish to talk to you about your mother
and yourself."

Cynthia promised, provided they did not leave for Coniston earlier, and
in that event agreed to write. Whereupon Miss Lucretia kissed her again
and hurried off to her meeting. On the way back to the Tremont House
Cynthia related excitedly the whole circumstance to Jethro and Ephraim.
Ephraim had heard of Miss Lucretia, of course. Who had not? But he did
not read the Woman's Hour. Jethro was silent. Perhaps he was thinking of
that fresh summer morning, so long ago, when a girl in a gig had
overtaken him in the canon made by the Brampton road through the woods.
The girl had worn a poke bonnet, and was returning a book to this same
Miss Lucretia Penniman's Social Library. And the book was the "Life of
Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Uncle Jethro, shall we still be in Boston to-morrow morning?" Cyn