“But I have been to school. Daddy taught me a lot, and Mr. Satterlee has taught me a great deal more. I know as much as most girls of my age, and I will study so hard in Coniston this winter, if that is what you want. I've never neglected my lessons, Uncle Jethro.”
“Tain't book-larnin'—'tain't what you'd get in book larnin' in Boston, Cynthy.”
“What, then?” she asked.
“Well,” said Jethro, “they'd teach you to be a lady, Cynthy.”
“A lady!”
“Your father come of good people, and—and your mother was a lady. I'm only a rough old man, Cynthy, and I don't know much about the ways of fine folks. But you've got it in ye, and I want you should be equal to the best of 'em: You can. And I shouldn't die content unless I'd felt that you'd had the chance. Er—Cynthy—will you do it for me?”
She was silent a long while before she turned to him, and then the tears were running very swiftly down her cheeks.
“Yes, I will do it for you,” she answered. “Uncle Jethro, I believe you are the best man, in the world.”
“D-don't say that, Cynthy—d-don't say that,” he exclaimed, and a sharp agony was in his voice. He got to his feet and went to the folding doors and opened them. “Steve!” he called, “Steve!”
“S-says she'll stay, Steve.”