Much of that spring Ephraim was all but helpless, and Cynthia spent many days nursing him and reading to him. Meanwhile the harness industry languished. Cynthia and Ephraim knew, and Coniston guessed, that Jethro was taking care of Ephraim, and strong as was his affection for Jethro the old soldier found dependence hard to bear. He never spoke of it to Cynthia, but he used to lie and dream through the spring days of what he might have done if the war had not crippled him. For Ephraim Prescott, like his grandfather, was a man of action—a keen, intelligent American whose energy, under other circumstances, might have gone toward the making of the West. Ephraim, furthermore, had certain principles which some in Coniston called cranks; for instance, he would never apply for a pension, though he could easily have obtained one. Through all his troubles, he held grimly to the ideal which meant more to him than ease and comfort,—that he had served his country for the love of it.
With the warm weather he was able to be about again, and occasionally to mend a harness, but Doctor Rowell shook his head when Jethro stopped his buggy in the road one day to inquire about Ephraim. Whereupon Jethro went on to the harness shop. The inspiration, by the way, had come from Cynthia.
“Er—Ephraim, how'd you like to, be postmaster? H-haven't any objections to that kind of a job, hev you?”
“Why no,” said Ephraim. “We hain't agoin' to hev a post-office at Coniston—air we?”
“H-how'd you like to be postmaster at Brampton?” demanded Jethro, abruptly.
Ephraim dropped the trace he was shaving.
“Postmaster at Brampton!” he exclaimed.
“H-how'd you like it?” said Jethro again.
“Well,” said Ephraim, “I hain't got any objections.”
Jethro started out of the shop, but paused again at the door.