The training of a lifetime had schooled Jethro not to betray surprise.

"K-kind of mixin' up in politics, hain't you, Cynthy? P-President say
he'd give you the postmastership, Eph?" he asked.

"He didn't say nothin' about it, Jethro," answered Ephraim slowly; "I
callate he has other views for the place, and he was too kind to come
right out with 'em and spoil our mornin'. You see, Jethro, I wahn't only
a sergeant, and Brampton's gittin' to be a big town."

"But, surely," cried Cynthia, who could scarcely wait for him to finish,
"surely you're going to give Cousin Eph the post-office, aren't you,
Uncle Jethro? All you have to do is to tell the President that you want
it for him. Why, I had an idea that we came down for that."

"Now, Cynthy," Ephraim put in, deprecatingly.

"Who else would get the post-office?" asked Cynthia. "Surely you're not
going to let Mr. Sutton have it for Dave Wheelock!"

"Er--Cynthy," said Jethro, slyly, "w-what'd you say to me once about
interferin' with women's fixin's?"

Cynthia saw the point. She perceived also that the mazes of politics were
not to be understood by a young woman, of even by an old soldier. She
laughed and seized Jethro's hands and pulled him from the bed.

"We won't get any dinner unless we hurry," she said.