text: CHAPTER VI 
  
  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." 