“Why,” answered the senator, somewhat taken aback, “why, to-night, if you like. I'm going to the White House in a few minutes and I think I can arrange it.” “T-to-morrow afternoon--t-to-morrow afternoon?” The senator cast his eye over the swallow-tail coat and stove-pipe hat tilted back, and laughed. “Thunder!” he exclaimed, “you haven't changed a bit. I'm beginning to look like an old man; but that milk-and-crackers diet seems to keep you young, Jethro. I'll fix it for to-morrow afternoon.” “W-what time--two?” “Well, I'll fix it for two to-morrow afternoon. I never could understand you, Jethro; you don't do things like other men. Do I smell gunpowder? What's up now--what do you want to see Grant about?” Jethro cast his eye around the corridor, where a few men were taking their ease after supper, and looked at the senator mysteriously. “Any place where we can talk?” he demanded. “We can go into the writing room and shut the door,” answered the senator, more amused than ever. When Cynthia came downstairs, Jethro was standing with the gentleman in the corridor leading to the dining room, and she heard the gentleman say as he took his departure:--“I haven't forgotten what you did for us in '70, Jethro. I'll go right along and see to it now.” Cynthia liked the gentleman's looks, and rightly surmised that he was one of the big men of the nation. She was about to ask Jethro his name when Ephraim came limping along and put the matter out of her mind, and the three went into the almost empty dining room. There they were served with elaborate attention by a darky waiter who had, in some mysterious way, learned Jethro's name and title. Cynthia reflected with pride that Jethro, too, was one of the nation's great men, who could get anything he wanted simply by coming to the capital and asking for it. Ephraim was very much excited on finding himself in Washington, the sight of the place reviving in his mind a score of forgotten incidents of the war. After supper they found seats in a corner of the corridor, where a number of people were scattered about, smoking and talking. It did not occur to Jethro or Cynthia, or even to Ephraim, that these people were all of the male sex, and on the other hand the guests of the hotel were apparently used once in a while to see a lady from the country seated there. At any rate, Cynthia was but a young girl, and her two companions, however unusual their appearance, were clearly most respectable. Jethro, his hands in his pockets and his hat tilted, sat on the small of his back rapt in meditation; Cynthia, her head awhirl, looked around her with sparkling eyes; while Ephraim was smoking a cigar he had saved for just such a festal occasion. He did not see the stout man with the button and corded hat until he was almost on top of him. “Eph Prescott, I believe!” exclaimed the stout one. “How be you, Comrade?”