thinkin'--thinkin', that's all, Cynthy."

Though all his life he had eaten sparingly, Cynthia noticed that he
scarcely touched his breakfast the next morning, and two hours later he
went unexpectedly to the state capital. That day, too, Coniston was
clothed in clouds, and by afternoon a wild March snowstorm was sweeping
down the face of the mountain, piling against doorways and blocking the
roads. Through the storm Cynthia fought her way to the harness shop, for
Ephraim Prescott had taken to his bed, bound hand and foot by rheumatism.

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.