“Er-what's that?” he demanded. “F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble. Fine thought.” He ruminated a little. “Never writ anything—did you—never writ anything?”
“Nothing worth publishing,” answered poor William Wetherell.
“J-just dreamed'—dreamed and kept store. S—something to have dreamed—eh—something to have dreamed?”
Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. It seemed very strange to him that he was at last face to face again wish the man whom Cynthia Ware had never been able to drive from her heart. Would, he mention her? Had he continued to love her, in spite of the woman he had married and adorned? Wetherell asked himself these questions before he spoke.
“It is more to have accomplished,” he said.
“S-something to have dreamed,” repeated Jethro, rising slowly from the counter. He went toward the doorway that led into the garden, and there he halted and stood listening.
“C-Cynthy!” he said, “C-Cynthy!”
Wetherell dropped his pen at the sound of the name on Jethro's lips. But it was little Cynthia he was calling little Cynthia in the garden. The child came at his voice, and stood looking up at him silently.
“H-how old be you, Cynthy?”
“Nine,” answered Cynthia, promptly.