CHAPTER VII
When they reached Boston, Cynthia felt almost as if she were home again, and Ephraim declared that he had had the same feeling when he returned from the war. Though it be the prosperous capital of New England, it is a city of homes, and the dwellers of it have held stanchly to the belief of their forefathers that the home is the very foundation-rock of the nation. Held stanchly to other beliefs, too: that wealth carries with it some little measure of responsibility. The stranger within the gates of that city feels that if he falls, a heedless world will not go charging over his body: that a helping hand will be stretched out,—a helping and a wise hand that will inquire into the circumstances of his fall—but still a human hand.
They were sitting in the parlor of the Tremont House that morning with the sun streaming in the windows, waiting for Ephraim.
“Uncle Jethro,” Cynthia asked, abruptly, “did you ever know my mother?”
Jethro started, and looked at her quickly.
“W-why, Cynthy?” he asked.
“Because she grew up in Coniston,” answered Cynthia. “I never thought of it before, but of course you must have known her.”
“Yes, I knew her,” he said.
“Did you know her well?” she persisted.