About five o'clock that afternoon Ephraim was sitting in his shirt-sleeves by the window of his room, and Cynthia was reading aloud to him an article (about the war, of course) from a Washington paper, which his friend, Mr. Beard, had sent him. There was a knock at the door, and Cynthia opened it to discover a colored hall-boy with a roll in his hand. "Mistah Ephum Prescott?" he said. "Yes," answered Ephraim, "that's me." Cynthia shut the door and gave him the roll, but Ephraim took it as though he were afraid of its contents. "Guess it's some of them war records from Amasy," he said. "Oh, Cousin Eph," exclaimed Cynthia, excitedly, "why don't you open it? If you don't I will." "Guess you'd better, Cynthy," and he held it out to her with a trembling hand. Cynthia did open it, and drew out a large document with seals and printing and signatures. "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 yourself? I am sure you would not be so cruel if you knew that I was aching to see you." Aching! Cynthia repeated the word, and remembered the glimpse she had had of him in the dining room with Miss Janet Duncan. "Whenever I have been free" (Cynthia repeated this also, somewhat ironically, although she conceded it the merit of frankness), "Whenever I have been free, I have haunted the corridors for a sight of you. Think of me as haunting the hotel desk for an answer to this, telling me when I can see you--and where. P.S. I shall be around all evening." And it was signed, "Your friend and playmate, R. Worthington."