“What can I do for you—­Mr. Bass?” asked the storekeeper, rather weakly.

“Just stepped in—­stepped in,” he answered.  “W-where’s Cynthy?”

“She was in the garden—­shall I get her?”

“No,” he said, parting his coat tails and seating himself on the counter.  “Go on figurin’, don’t mind me.”

The thing was manifestly impossible.  Perhaps Wetherell indicated as much by his answer.

“Like storekeepin’?” Jethro asked presently, perceiving that he did not continue his work.

“A man must live, Mr. Bass,” said Wetherell; “I had to leave the city for my health.  I began life keeping store,” he added, “but I little thought I should end it so.”

“Given to book-l’arnin’ then, wahn’t you?” Jethro remarked.  He did not smile, but stared at the square of light that was the doorway, “Judson’s jewellery store, wahn’t it?  Judson’s?”

“Yes, Judson’s,” Wetherell answered, as soon as he recovered from his amazement.  There was no telling from Jethro’s manner whether he were enemy or friend; whether he bore the storekeeper a grudge for having attained to a happiness that had not been his.

“Hain’t made a great deal out of life, hev you?  N-not a great deal?” Jethro observed at last.

Wetherell flushed, although Jethro had merely stated a truth which had often occurred to the storekeeper himself.

“It isn’t given to all of us to find Rome in brick and leave it in marble,” he replied a little sadly.

Jethro Bass looked at him quickly.

“Er-what’s that?” he demanded.  “F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble.  Fine thought.”  He ruminated a little.  “Never writ anything—­did you—­never writ anything?”

“Nothing worth publishing,” answered poor William Wetherell.

“J-just dreamed’—­dreamed and kept store.  S—­something to have dreamed—­eh—­something to have dreamed?”

Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.  It seemed very strange to him that he was at last face to face again wish the man whom Cynthia Ware had never been able to drive from her heart.  Would, he mention her?  Had he continued to love her, in spite of the woman he had married and adorned?  Wetherell asked himself these questions before he spoke.

“It is more to have accomplished,” he said.

“S-something to have dreamed,” repeated Jethro, rising slowly from the counter.  He went toward the doorway that led into the garden, and there he halted and stood listening.

“C-Cynthy!” he said, “C-Cynthy!”

Wetherell dropped his pen at the sound of the name on Jethro’s lips.  But it was little Cynthia he was calling little Cynthia in the garden.  The child came at his voice, and stood looking up at him silently.

“H-how old be you, Cynthy?”

“Nine,” answered Cynthia, promptly.

“L-like the country, Cynthy—­like the country better than the city?”