They took the stage-coach from Brampton over the pass:  picturesque stage-coach with its apple-green body and leather springs, soon to be laid away forever if the coveted Truro Franchise Bill becomes a law; stage-coach which pulls up defiantly beside its own rival at Truro station, where our passengers take the train down the pleasant waterways and past the little white villages among the fruit trees to the capital.  The thrill of anticipation was in Cynthia’s blood, and the flush of pleasure on her cheeks, when they stopped at last under the sheds.  The conductor snapped his fingers and cried, “This way, Judge,” and there was Jethro in his swallow-tailed coat and stove-pipe hat awaiting them.  He seized Wetherell’s carpet-bag with one hand and Cynthia’s arm with the other, and shouldered his way through the people, who parted when they saw who it was.

“Uncle Jethro,” cried Cynthia, breathlessly, “I didn’t know you were a judge.  What are you judge of?”

“J-judge of clothes, Cynthy.  D-don’t you wish you had the red cloth to wear here?”

“No, I don’t,” said Cynthia.  “I’m glad enough to be here without it.”

“G-glad to hev you in any fixin’s, Cynthy,” he said, giving her arm a little squeeze, and by that time they were up the hill and William Wetherell quite winded.  For Jethro was strong as an ox, and Cynthia’s muscles were like an Indian’s.

They were among the glories of Main Street now.  The capital was then, and still remains, a typically beautiful New England city, with wide streets shaded by shapely maples and elms, with substantial homes set back amidst lawns and gardens.  Here on Main Street were neat brick business buildings and banks and shops, with the park-like grounds of the Capitol farther on, and everywhere, from curb to doorway, were knots of men talking politics; broad-faced, sunburned farmers in store clothes, with beards that hid their shirt fronts; keen-featured, sallow, country lawyers in long black coats crumpled from much sitting on the small of the back; country storekeepers with shrewd eyes, and local proprietors and manufacturers.

“Uncle Jethro, I didn’t know you were such a great man,” she said.

“H-how did ye find out, Cynthy?”

“The way people treat you here.  I knew you were great, of course,” she hastened to add.

“H-how do they treat me?” he asked, looking down at her.

“You know,” she answered.  “They all stop talking when you come along and stare at you.  But why don’t you speak to them?”

Jethro smiled and squeezed her arm again, and then they were in the corridor of the famous Pelican Hotel, hazy with cigar smoke and filled with politicians.  Some were standing, hanging on to pillars, gesticulating, some were ranged in benches along the wall, and a chosen few were in chairs grouped around the spittoons.  Upon the appearance of Jethro’s party, the talk was hushed, the groups gave way, and they accomplished a kind of triumphal march to the desk.  The clerk, descrying them, desisted abruptly from a conversation across the cigar counter, and with all the form of a ceremony dipped the pen with a flourish into the ink and handed it to Jethro.