Mr. Sutton was one who would make himself felt even in the capital of the United States--felt and heard. And he had not been long in the Halls of Congress before he made a speech which rang under the very dome of the Capitol. So said the Brampton and Harwich papers, at least, though rivals and detractors of Mr. Sutton declared that they could find no matter in it which related to the subject of a bill, but that is neither here nor there. The oration began with a lengthy tribute to the resources and history of his state, and ended by a declaration that the speaker was in Congress at no man's bidding, but as the servant of the common people of his district. Under the lamp of the little parlor in the tannery house, Cynthia (who has now arrived at the very serious age of nineteen) was reading the papers to Jethro and came upon Mr. Sutton's speech. There were four columns of it, but Jethro seemed to take delight in every word; and portions of the noblest parts of it, indeed, he had Cynthia read over again. Sometimes, in the privacy of his home, Jethro was known to chuckle, and to Cynthia's surprise he chuckled more than usual that evening. "Uncle Jethro," she said at length, when she had laid the paper down, "I thought that you sent Mr. Sutton to Congress." Jethro leaned forward. "What put that into your head, Cynthy?" he asked. "Oh," answered the girl, "everybody says so,--Moses Hatch, Rias, and Cousin Eph. Didn't you?" Jethro looked at her, as she thought, strangely. "You're too young to know anything about such things, Cynthy," he said, "too young." "But you make all the judges and senators and congressmen in the state, I know you do. Why," exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly, "why does Mr. Sutton say the people elected him when he owes everything to you?" Jethro, arose abruptly and flung a piece of wood into the stove, and then he stood with his back to her. Her instinct told her that he was suffering, though she could not fathom the cause, and she rose swiftly and drew him down into the chair beside her. "What is it?" she said anxiously. "Have you got rheumatism, too, like Cousin Eph? All old men seem to have rheumatism." "No, Cynthy, it hain't rheumatism," he managed to answer; "wimmen folks hadn't ought to mix up in politics. They--they don't understand 'em, Cynthy." "But I shall understand them some day, because I am your daughter--now that--now that I have only you, I am your daughter, am I not?" "Yes, yes," he answered huskily, with his hand on her hair. "And I know more than most women now," continued Cynthia, triumphantly. "I'm going to be such a help to you soon--very soon. I've read a lot of history, and I know some of the Constitution by heart. I know why old Timothy Prescott fought in the Revolution--it was to get rid of kings, wasn't it, and to let the people have a chance? The people can always be trusted to do what is right, can't they, Uncle Jethro?"