"Yes, I knew her," he said.
"Did you know her well?" she persisted.
Jethro got up and went over to the window, where he stood with his back toward her.
"Yes, Cynthy," he answered at length.
"Why haven't you ever told me about her?" asked Cynthia. How was she to know that her innocent questions tortured him cruelly; that the spirit of the Cynthia who had come to him in the tannery house had haunted him all his life, and that she herself, a new Cynthia, was still that spirit? The bygone Cynthia had been much in his thoughts since they came to Boston.
"What was she like?"
"She—she was like you, Cynthy," he said, but he did not turn round. "She was a clever woman, and a good woman, and—a lady, Cynthy."
The girl said nothing for a while, but she tingled with pleasure because Jethro had compared her to her mother. She determined to try to be like that, if he thought her so.
"Uncle Jethro," she said presently, "I'd like to go to see the house where she lived."
"Er—Ephraim knows it," said Jethro.