And so it was settled, after much further argument, that they were all to sup at Mr. Merrill's house, Cynthia stoutly maintaining that she would not desert them. And then Mr. Merrill, having several times repeated the street and number, went, back to his office. There was much mysterious whispering between Ephraim and Jethro in the hotel parlor after dinner, while Cynthia was turning over the leaves of a magazine, and then Ephraim proposed going out to see the sights. "Where's Uncle Jethro going?" she asked. "He'll meet us," said Ephraim, promptly, but his voice was not quite steady. "Oh, Uncle Jethro!" cried Cynthia, "you're trying to get out of it. You remember you promised to meet us in Washington." "Guess he'll keep this app'intment," said Ephraim, who seemed to be full of a strange mirth that bubbled over, for he actually winked at Jethro. Cynthia's mind flew to Bunker Bill and the old North Church, but they went first to Faneuil Hall. Presently they found themselves among the crowd in Washington Street, where Ephraim confessed the trepidation which he felt over the coming supper party: a trepidation greater, so he declared many times, than he had ever experienced before any of his battles in the war. He stopped once or twice in the eddy of the crowd to glance up at the numbers; and finally came to a halt before the windows of a large dry-goods store. "I guess I ought to buy a new shirt for this occasion, Cynthy," he said, staring hard at the articles of apparel displayed there: "Let's go in." Cynthia laughed outright, since Ephraim could not by any chance have worn any of the articles in question. "Why, Cousin Ephraim," she exclaimed, "you can't buy gentlemen's things here." "Oh, I guess you can," said Ephraim, and hobbled confidently in at the doorway. There we will leave him for a while conversing in an undertone with a floor-walker, and follow Jethro. He, curiously enough, had some fifteen minutes before gone in at the same doorway, questioned the same floor-walker, and he found himself in due time walking amongst a bewildering lot of models on the third floor, followed by a giggling saleswoman. "What kind of a dress do you want, sir?" asked the saleslady,--for we are impelled to call her so. "S-silk cloth," said Jethro. "What shades of silk would you like, sir?" "Shades? shades? What do you mean by shades?" "Why, colors," said the saleslady, giggling openly. "Green," said Jethro, with considerable emphasis. The saleslady clapped her hand over her mouth and led the way to another model. "You don't call that green--do you? That's not green enough." They inspected another dress, and then another and another,--not all of them were green,--Jethro expressing very decided if not expert views on each of them. At last he paused before two models at the far end of the room, passing his hand repeatedly over each as he had done so often with the cattle of Coniston. "These two pieces same kind of goods?" he demanded. "Yes."