“Yes, yes,” he answered huskily, with his hand on her hair.
“And I know more than most women now,” continued Cynthia, triumphantly. “I'm going to be such a help to you soon—very soon. I've read a lot of history, and I know some of the Constitution by heart. I know why old Timothy Prescott fought in the Revolution—it was to get rid of kings, wasn't it, and to let the people have a chance? The people can always be trusted to do what is right, can't they, Uncle Jethro?”
Jethro was silent, but Cynthia did not seem to notice that. After a space she spoke again:—“I've been thinking it all out about you, Uncle Jethro.”
“A-about me?”
“Yes, I know why you are able to send men to Congress and make judges of them. It's because the people have chosen you to do all that for them—you are so great and good.”
Jethro did not answer.
Although the month was March, it was one of those wonderful still nights that sometimes come in the mountain-country when the wind is silent in the notches and the stars seem to burn nearer to the earth. Cynthia awoke and lay staring for an instant at the red planet which hung over the black and ragged ridge, and then she arose quickly and knocked at the door across the passage.
“Are you ill, Uncle Jethro?”
“No,” he answered, “no, Cynthy. Go to bed. Er—I was just thinkin'—thinkin', that's all, Cynthy.”
Though all his life he had eaten sparingly, Cynthia noticed that he scarcely touched his breakfast the next morning, and two hours later he went unexpectedly to the state capital. That day, too, Coniston was clothed in clouds, and by afternoon a wild March snowstorm was sweeping down the face of the mountain, piling against doorways and blocking the roads. Through the storm Cynthia fought her way to the harness shop, for Ephraim Prescott had taken to his bed, bound hand and foot by rheumatism.