"Cousin Eph," she cried, holding it under his nose, "Cousin Eph, you're
postmaster of Brampton!"

Ephraim looked at the paper, but his eyes swam, and he could only make
out a dancing, bronze seal.

"I want to know!" he exclaimed. "Fetch Jethro."

But Cynthia had already flown on that errand. Curiously enough, she ran
into Jethro in the hall immediately outside of Ephraim's door. Ephraim
got to his feet; it was very difficult for him to realize that his
troubles were ended, that he was to earn his living at last. He looked at
Jethro, and his eyes filled with tears. "I guess I can't thank you as I'd
ought to, Jethro," he said, "leastways, not now."

"I'll thank him for you, Cousin Eph," said Cynthia. And she did.

"D-don't thank me," said Jethro, "I didn't have much to do with it, Eph.
Thank the President."

Ephraim did thank the President, in one of the most remarkable letters,
from a literary point of view, ever received at the White House. For the
art of literature largely consists in belief in what one is writing, and
Ephraim's letter had this quality of sincerity, and no lack of vividness
as well. He spent most of the evening in composing it.

Cynthia, too, had received a letter that day--a letter which she had read
several times, now with a smile, and again with a pucker of the forehead
which was meant for a frown. "Dear Cynthia," it said. "Where do you keep