Time passes, and the engines of the Truro Railroad are now puffing in and
out of the yards of Worthington's mills in Brampton, and a fine layer of
dust covers the old green stage which has worn the road for so many years
over Truro Gap. If you are ever in Brampton, you can still see the stage,
if you care to go into the back of what was once Jim Sanborn's livery
stable, now owned by Mr. Sherman of the Brampton House.
Conventions and elections had come and gone, and the Honorable Heth
Sutton had departed triumphantly to Washington, cheered by his neighbors
in Clovelly. Chamberlain Bixby was left in charge there, supreme. Who
could be more desirable as a member of Congress than Mr. Sutton, who had
so ably served his party (and Jethro) by holding the House against the
insurgents in the matter of the Truro Bill? Mr. Sutton was, moreover, a
gentleman, an owner of cattle and land, a man of substance whom lesser
men were proud to mention as a friend--a very hill-Rajah with stock in
railroads and other enterprises, who owed allegiance and paid tribute
alone to the Great Man of Coniston.
Mr. Sutton was one who would make himself felt even in the capital of the
United States--felt and heard. And he had not been long in the Halls of
Congress before he made a speech which rang under the very dome of the
Capitol. So said the Brampton and Harwich papers, at least, though rivals
and detractors of Mr. Sutton declared that they could find no matter in
it which related to the subject of a bill, but that is neither here nor
there. The oration began with a lengthy tribute to the resources and
history of his state, and ended by a declaration that the speaker was in
Congress at no man's bidding, but as the servant of the common people of
his district.
Under the lamp of the little parlor in the tannery house, Cynthia (who
has now arrived at the very serious age of nineteen) was reading the
papers to Jethro and came upon Mr. Sutton's speech. There were four
columns of it, but Jethro seemed to take delight in every word; and
portions of the noblest parts of it, indeed, he had Cynthia read over
again. Sometimes, in the privacy of his home, Jethro was known to
chuckle, and to Cynthia's surprise he chuckled more than usual that
evening.
"Uncle Jethro," she said at length, when she had laid the paper down, "I
thought that you sent Mr. Sutton to Congress."
Jethro leaned forward.
"What put that into your head, Cynthy?" he asked.
"Oh," answered the girl, "everybody says so,--Moses Hatch, Rias, and
Cousin Eph. Didn't you?"
Jethro looked at her, as she thought, strangely.
"You're too young to know anything about such things, Cynthy," he said,
"too young."
"But you make all the judges and senators and congressmen in the state, I
know you do. Why," exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly, "why does Mr. Sutton
say the people elected him when he owes everything to you?"
Jethro, arose abruptly and flung a piece of wood into the stove, and then
he stood with his back to her. Her instinct told her that he was
suffering, though she could not fathom the cause, and she rose swiftly
and drew him down into the chair beside her.
"What is it?" she said anxiously. "Have you got rheumatism, too, like
Cousin Eph? All old men seem to have rheumatism."
"No, Cynthy, it hain't rheumatism," he managed to answer; "wimmen folks
hadn't ought to mix up in politics. They--they don't understand 'em,
Cynthy."
"But I shall understand them some day, because I am your daughter--now
that--now that I have only you, I am your daughter, am I not?"
"Yes, yes," he answered huskily, with his hand on her hair.
"And I know more than most women now," continued Cynthia, triumphantly.
"I'm going to be such a help to you soon--very soon. I've read a lot of
history, and I know some of the Constitution by heart. I know why old
Timothy Prescott fought in the Revolution--it was to get rid of kings,
wasn't it, and to let the people have a chance? The people can always be
trusted to do what is right, can't they, Uncle Jethro?"
Jethro was silent, but Cynthia did not seem to notice that. After a space
she spoke again:--"I've been thinking it all out about you, Uncle
Jethro."
"A-about me?"
"Yes, I know why you are able to send men to Congress and make judges of
them. It's because the people have chosen you to do all that for
them--you are so great and good."
Jethro did not answer.
Although the month was March, it was one of those wonderful still nights
that sometimes come in the mountain-country when the wind is silent in
the notches and the stars seem to burn nearer to the earth. Cynthia awoke
and lay staring for an instant at the red planet which hung over the
black and ragged ridge, and then she arose quickly and knocked at the
door across the passage.
"Are you ill, Uncle Jethro?"
"No," he answered, "no, Cynthy. Go to bed. Er--I was just
thinkin'--thinkin', that's all, Cynthy."
Though all his life he had eaten sparingly, Cynthia noticed that he
scarcely touched his breakfast the next morning, and two hours later he
went unexpectedly to the state capital. That day, too, Coniston was
clothed in clouds, and by afternoon a wild March snowstorm was sweeping
down the face of the mountain, piling against doorways and blocking the
roads. Through the storm Cynthia fought her way to the harness shop, for
Ephraim Prescott had taken to his bed, bound hand and foot by rheumatism.
Much of that spring Ephraim was all but helpless, and Cynthia spent many
days nursing him and reading to him. Meanwhile the harness industry
languished. Cynthia and Ephraim knew, and Coniston guessed, that Jethro
was taking care of Ephraim, and strong as was his affection for Jethro
the old soldier found dependence hard to bear. He never spoke of it to
Cynthia, but he used to lie and dream through the spring days of what he
might have done if the war had not crippled him. For Ephraim Prescott,
like his grandfather, was a man of action--a keen, intelligent American
whose energy, under other circumstances, might have gone toward the
making of the West. Ephraim, furthermore, had certain principles which
some in Coniston called cranks; for instance, he would never apply for a
pension, though he could easily have obtained one. Through all his
troubles, he held grimly to the ideal which meant more to him than ease
and comfort,--that he had served his country for the love of it.
With the warm weather he was able to be about again, and occasionally to
mend a harness, but Doctor Rowell shook his head when Jethro stopped his
buggy in the road one day to inquire about Ephraim. Whereupon Jethro went
on to the harness shop. The inspiration, by the way, had come from
Cynthia.
"Er--Ephraim, how'd you like to, be postmaster? H-haven't any objections
to that kind of a job, hev you?"
"Why no," said Ephraim. "We hain't agoin' to hev a post-office at
Coniston--air we?"
"H-how'd you like to be postmaster at Brampton?" demanded Jethro,
abruptly.
Ephraim dropped the trace he was shaving.
"Postmaster at Brampton!" he exclaimed.
"H-how'd you like it?" said Jethro again.
"Well," said Ephraim, "I hain't got any objections."
Jethro started out of the shop, but paused again at the door.
"W-won't say nothin' about it, will you, Eph?" he inquired.
"Not till I git it," answered Ephraim. The sorrows of three years were
suddenly lifted from his shoulders, and for an instant Ephraim wanted to
dance until he remembered the rheumatism and the Wilderness leg. Suddenly
a thought struck him, and he hobbled to the door and called out after
Jethro's retreating figure. Jethro returned.
"Well?" he said, "well?"
"What's the pay?" said Ephraim, in a whisper.
Jethro named the sum instantly, also in a whisper.
"You don't tell me!" said Ephraim, and sank stupefied into the chair in
front of the shop, where lately he had spent so much of his time.
Jethro chuckled twice on his way home: he chuckled twice again to
Cynthia's delight at supper, and after supper he sent Millicent Skinner
to find Jake Wheeler. Jake as usual, was kicking his heels in front of
the store, talking to Rias and others about the coming Fourth of July
celebration at Brampton. Brampton, as we know, was famous for its Fourth
of July celebrations. Not neglecting to let it be known that Jethro had
sent for him, Jake hurried off through the summer twilight to the tannery
house, bowed ceremoniously to Cynthia under the butternut tree, and
discovered Jethro behind the shed. It was usually Jethro's custom to
allow the other man to begin the conversation, no matter how trivial the
subject--a method which had commended itself to Mr. Bixby and other minor
politicians who copied him. And usually the other man played directly
into Jethro's hands. Jake Wheeler always did, and now, to cover the
awkwardness of the silence, he began on the Brampton celebration.
"They tell me Heth Sutton's a-goin' to make the address--seems prouder
than ever sence he went to Congress. I guess you'll tell him what to say
when the time comes, Jethro."
"Er--goin' to Clovelly after wool this week, Jake?"
"I kin go to-morrow," said Jake, scenting an affair.
"Er--goin' to Clovelly after wool this week, Jake?"
Jake reflected. He saw it was expedient that this errand should not smell
of haste.
"I was goin' to see Cutter on Friday," he answered.
"Er--if you should happen to meet Heth--"
"Yes," interrupted Jake.
"If by chance you should happen to meet Heth, or Bije" (Jethro knew that
Jake never went to Clovelly without a conference with one or the other of
these personages, if only to be able to talk about it afterward at the
store), "er--what would you say to 'em?"
"Why," said Jake, scratching his head for the answer, "I'd tell him you
was at Coniston."
"Think we'll have rain, Jake?" inquired Jethro, blandly.
Jake wended his way back to the store, filled with renewed admiration for
the great man. Jethro had given him no instructions whatever, could deny
before a jury if need be that he had sent him (Jake) to Clovelly to tell
Heth Sutton to come to Coniston for instructions on the occasion of his
Brampton speech. And Jake was filled with a mysterious importance when he
took his seat once more in the conclave.
Jake Wheeler, although in many respects a fool, was one of the most
efficient pack of political hounds that the state has ever known. By six
o'clock on Friday morning he was descending a brook valley on the
Clovelly side of the mountain, and by seven was driving between the
forest and river meadows of the Rajah's domain, and had come in sight of
the big white house with its somewhat pretentious bay-windows and Gothic
doorway; it might be dubbed the palace of these parts. The wide river
flowed below it, and the pastures so wondrously green in the morning sun
were dotted with fat cattle and sheep. Jake was content to borrow a cut
of tobacco from the superintendent and wonder aimlessly around the farm
until Mr. Sutton's family prayers and breakfast were accomplished. We
shall not concern ourselves with the message or the somewhat lengthy
manner in which it was delivered. Jake had merely dropped in by accident,
but the Rajah listened coldly while he picked his teeth, said he didn't
know whether he was going to Brampton or not--hadn't decided; didn't know
whether he could get to Coniston or not--his affairs were multitudinous
now. In short, he set Jake to thinking deeply as his horse walked up the
western heights of Coniston on the return journey. He had, let it be
repeated, a sure instinct once his nose was fairly on the scent, and he
was convinced that a war of great magnitude was in the air, and he; Jake
Wheeler, was probably the first in all the elate to discover it! His
blood leaped at the thought.
The hill-Rajah's defiance, boiled down, could only mean one thing,--that
somebody with sufficient power and money was about to lock horns with
Jethro Bass. Not for a moment did Jake believe that, for all his pomp and
circumstance, the Honorable Heth Sutton was a big enough man to do this.
Jake paid to the Honorable Heth all the outward respect that his high
position demanded, but he knew the man through and through. He thought of
the Honorable Heth's reform speech in Congress, and laughed loudly in the
echoing woods. No, Mr. Sutton was not the man to lead a fight. But to
whom had he promised his allegiance? This question puzzled Mr. Wheeler
all the way home, and may it be said finally for many days thereafter. He
slid into Coniston in the dusk, big with impending events, which he could
not fathom. As to giving Jethro the careless answer of the hill-Rajah,
that was another matter.
The Fourth of July came at last, nor was any contradiction made in the
Brampton papers that the speech of the Honorable Heth Sutton had been
cancelled. Instead, advertisements appeared in the 'Brampton Clarion'
announcing the fact in large letters. When Cynthia read this
advertisement to Jethro, he chuckled again. They were under the butternut
tree, for the evenings were long now.
"Will you take me to Brampton, Uncle Jethro?" said she, letting fall the
paper on her lap.
"W-who's to get in the hay?" said Jethro.
"Hay on the Fourth of July!" exclaimed Cynthia, "why, that's--sacrilege!
You'd much better come and hear Mr. Sutton's speech--it will do you
good."
Cynthia could see that Jethro was intensely amused, for his eyes had a
way of snapping on such occasions when he was alone with her. She was
puzzled and slightly offended, because, to tell the truth, Jethro had
spoiled her.
"Very well, then," she said, "I'll go with the Painter-man."
Jethro came and stood over her, his expression the least bit wistful.
"Er--Cynthy," he said presently, "hain't fond of that Painter-man, be
you?"
"Why, yes," said Cynthia, "aren't you?"
"He's fond of you," said Jethro, "sh-shouldn't be surprised if he was in
love with you."
Cynthia looked up at him, the corners of her mouth twitching, and then
she laughed. The Rev. Mr. Satterlee, writing his Sunday sermon in his
study, heard her and laid down his pen to listen.
"Uncle Jethro," said Cynthia, "sometimes I forget that you're a great,
wise man, and I think that you are just a silly old goose."
Jethro wiped his face with his blue cotton handkerchief.
"Then you hain't a-goin' to marry the Painter-man?" he said.
"I'm not going to marry anybody," cried Cynthia, contritely; "I'm going
to live with you and take care of you all my life."
On the morning of the Fourth, Cynthia drove to Brampton with the
Painter-man, and when he perceived that she was dreaming, he ceased to
worry her with his talk. He liked her dreaming, and stole many glances at
her face of which she knew nothing at all. Through the cool and fragrant
woods, past the mill-pond stained blue and white by the sky, and scented
clover fields and wayside flowers nodding in the morning air--Cynthia saw
these things in the memory of another journey to Brampton. On that Fourth
her father had been with her, and Jethro and Ephraim and Moses and Amanda
Hatch and the children. And how well she recalled, too, standing amidst
the curious crowd before the great house which Mr. Worthington had just
built.
There are weeks and months, perhaps, when we do not think of people, when
our lives are full and vigorous, and then perchance a memory will bring
them vividly before us--so vividly that we yearn for them. There rose
before Cynthia now the vision of a boy as he stood on the Gothic porch of
the house, and how he had come down to the wondering country people with
his smile and his merry greeting, and how he had cajoled her into
lingering in front of the meeting-house. Had he forgotten her? With just
a suspicion of a twinge, Cynthia remembered that Janet Duncan she had
seen at the capital, whom she had been told was the heiress of the state.
When he had graduated from Harvard, Bob would, of course, marry her. That
was in the nature of things.
To some the great event of that day in Brampton was to be the speech of
the Honorable Heth Sutton in the meeting-house at eleven; others (and
this party was quite as numerous) had looked forward to the base-ball
game between Brampton and Harwich in the afternoon. The painter would
have preferred to walk up meeting-house hill with Cynthia, and from the
cool heights look down upon the amphitheatre in which the town was built.
But Cynthia was interested in history, and they went to the meeting-house
accordingly, where she listened for an hour and a half to the patriotic
eloquence of the representative. The painter was glad to see and hear so
great a man in the hour of his glory, though so much as a fragment of the
oration does not now remain in his memory. In size, in figure, in
expression, in the sonorous tones of his voice, Mr. Sutton was everything
that a congressman should be. "The people," said Isaac D. Worthington in
presenting him, "should indeed be proud of such an able and high-minded
representative." We shall have cause to recall that word high-minded.
Many persons greeted Cynthia outside the meetinghouse, for the girl
seemed genuinely loved by all who knew her--too much loved, her companion
thought, by certain spick-and-span young men of Brampton. But they ate
the lunch Cynthia had brought, far from the crowd, under the trees by
Coniston Water. It was she who proposed going to the base-ball game, and
the painter stifled a sigh and acquiesced. Their way brought them down
Brampton Street, past a house with great iron dogs on the lawn, so
imposing and cityfied that he hung back and asked who lived there.
"Mr. Worthington," answered Cynthia, making to move on impatiently.
Her escort did not think much of the house, but it interested him as the
type which Mr. Worthington had built. On that same Gothic porch,
sublimely unconscious of the covert stares and subdued comments of the
passers-by, the first citizen himself and the Honorable Heth Sutton might
be seen. Mr. Worthington, whose hawklike look had become more pronounced,
sat upright, while the Honorable Heth, his legs crossed, filled every
nook and cranny of an arm-chair, and an occasional fragrant whiff from
his cigar floated out to those on the tar sidewalk. Although the
pedestrians were but twenty feet away, what Mr. Worthington said never
reached them; but the Honorable Heth on public days carried his voice of
the Forum around with him.
"Come on," said Cynthia, in one of those startling little tempers she was
subject to; "don't stand there like an idiot."
Then the voice of Mr. Sutton boomed toward them.
"As I understand, Worthington," they heard him say, "you want me to
appoint young Wheelock for the Brampton post-office." He stuck his thumb
into his vest pocket and recrossed his legs "I guess it can be arranged."
When the painter at last overtook Cynthia the jewel paints he had so
often longed to catch upon a canvas were in her eyes. He fell back,
wondering how he could so greatly have offended, when she put her hand on
his sleeve.
"Did you hear what he said about the Brampton postoffice?" she cried.
"The Brampton post-office?" he repeated; dazed.
"Yes," said Cynthia; "Uncle Jethro has promised it to Cousin Ephraim, who
will starve without it. Did you hear this man say he would give it to Mr.
Wheelock?"
Here was a new Cynthia, aflame with emotions on a question of politics of
which he knew nothing. He did, understand, however, her concern for
Ephraim Prescott, for he knew that she loved the soldier. She turned from
the painter now with a gesture which he took to mean that his profession
debarred him from such vital subjects, and she led the way to the
fair-grounds. There he meekly bought tickets, and they found themselves
hurried along in the eager crowd toward the stand.
The girl was still unaccountably angry over that mysterious affair of the
post-office, and sat with flushed cheeks staring out on the green field,
past the line of buggies and carryalls on the farther side to the
southern shoulder of Coniston towering, above them all. The painter,
already, beginning to love his New England folk, listened to the homely
chatter about him, until suddenly a cheer starting in one corner ran like
a flash of gunpowder around the field, and eighteen young men trotted
across the turf. Although he was not a devotee of sport, he noticed that
nine of these, as they took their places on the bench, wore blue,--the
Harwich Champions. Seven only of those scattering over the field wore
white; two young gentlemen, one at second base and the other behind the
batter, wore gray uniforms with crimson stockings, and crimson piping on
the caps, and a crimson H embroidered on the breast--a sight that made
the painter's heart beat a little faster, the honored livery of his own
college.
"What are those two Harvard men doing here?" he asked.
Cynthia, who was leaning forward, started, and turned to him a face which
showed him that his question had been meaningless. He repeated it.
"Oh," said she, "the tall one, burned brick-red like an Indian, is Bob
Worthington."
"He's a good type," the artist remarked.
"You're right, Mister, there hain't a finer young feller anywhere,"
chimed in Mr. Dodd, a portly person with a tuft of yellow beard on his
chin. Mr. Dodd kept the hardware store in Brampton.
"And who," asked the painter, "is the bullet-headed little fellow, with
freckles and short red hair, behind the bat?"
"I don't know," said Cynthia, indifferently.
"Why," exclaimed Mr. Dodd, with just a trace of awe in his voice, "that's
Somers Duncan, son of Millionaire Duncan down to the capital. I guess,"
he added, "I guess them two will be the richest men in the state some
day. Duncan come up from Harvard with Bob."
In a few minutes the game was in full swing, Brampton against Harwich,
the old rivalry in another form. Every advantage on either side awoke
thundering cheers from the partisans; beribboned young women sprang to
their feet and waved the Harwich blue at a home run, and were on the
verge of tears when the Brampton pitcher struck out their best batsman.
But beyond the facts that the tide was turning in Brampton's favor; that
young Mr. Worthington stopped a ball flying at a phenomenal speed and
batted another at a still more phenomenal speed which was not stopped;
that his name and Duncan's were mingled generously in the cheering, the
painter remembered little of the game. The exhibition of human passions
which the sight of it drew from an undemonstrative race: the shouting,
the comments wrung from hardy spirits off their guard, the joy and the
sorrow,--such things interested him more. High above the turmoil
Coniston, as through the ages, looked down upon the scene impassive.
He was aroused from these reflections by an incident. Some one had leaped
over the railing which separated the stand from the field and stood
before Cynthia,--a tanned and smiling young man in gray and crimson. His
honest eyes were alight with an admiration that was unmistakable to the
painter--perhaps to Cynthia also, for a glow that might have been of
annoyance or anger, and yet was like the color of the mountain sunrise,
answered in her cheek. Mr. Worthington reached out a large brown hand and
seized the girl's as it lay on her lap.
"Hello, Cynthia," he cried, "I've been looking for you all day. I thought
you might be here. Where were you?"
"Where did you look?" answered Cynthia, composedly, withdrawing her hand.
"Everywhere," said Bob, "up and down the street, all through the hotel. I
asked Lem Hallowell, and he didn't know where you were. I only got here
last night myself."
"I was in the meeting-house," said Cynthia.
"The meeting-house!" he echoed. "You don't mean to tell me that you
listened to that silly speech of Sutton's?"
This remark, delivered in all earnestness, was the signal for uproarious
laughter from Mr. Dodd and others sitting near by, attending earnestly to
the conversation.
Cynthia bit her lip.
"Yes, I did," she said; "but I'm sorry now."
"I should think you would be," said Bob; "Sutton's a silly, pompous old
fool. I had to sit through dinner with him. I believe I could represent
the district better myself."
"By gosh!" exploded Mr. Dodd, "I believe you could!"
But Bob paid no attention to him. He was looking at Cynthia.
"Cynthia, you've grown up since I saw you," he said. "How's Uncle Jethro.
"He's well--thanks," said Cynthia, and now she was striving to put down a
smile.
"Still running the state?" said Bob. "You tell him I think he ought to
muzzle Sutton. What did he send him down to Washington for?"
"I don't know," said Cynthia.
"What are you going to do after the game?" Bob demanded.
"I'm going home of course," said Cynthia.
His face fell.
"Can't you come to the house for supper and stay for the fireworks?" he
begged pleadingly. "We'd be mighty glad to have your friend, too."
Cynthia introduced her escort.
"It's very good of you, Bob," she said, with that New England demureness
which at times became her so well, "but we couldn't possibly do it. And
then I don't like Mr. Sutton."
"Oh, hang him!" exclaimed Bob. He took a step nearer to her. "Won't you
stay this once? I have to go West in the morning."
"I think you are very lucky," said Cynthia.
Bob scanned her face searchingly, and his own fell.
"Lucky!" he cried, "I think it's the worst thing that ever happened to
me. My father's so hard-headed when he gets his mind set--he's making me
do it. He wants me to see the railroads and the country, so I've got to
go with the Duncans. I wanted to stay--" He checked himself, "I think
it's a blamed nuisance."
"So do I," said a voice behind him.
It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob
either had not heard him or pretended not to. Mr. Duncan's freckled face
smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on Cynthia's
face, and he had been listening eagerly. Mr. Duncan's chief
characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness--a quality
probably amounting to keenness.
"Hello," said Bob, turning impatiently, "I might have known you couldn't
keep away. You're the cause of all my troubles--you and your father's
private car."
Somers became apologetic.
"It isn't my fault," he said; "I'm sure I hate going as much as you do.
It's spoiled my summer, too."
Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.
"Well," said Bob, "I suppose I'll have to introduce you. This," he added,
dragging his friend over the railing, "is Mr. Somers Duncan."
"I'm awfully glad to meet you, Miss. Wetherell," said Somers, fervently;
"to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns."
"Yarns?" repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.
"Why, yes," he stammered. "Worthy said that you were up here, but I
thought he was crazy the way he talked--I didn't think--"
"Think what?" inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.
"Oh, rot, Somers!" said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; "you ought
never to go near a woman--you're the darndest fool with 'em I ever saw."
This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little
sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths. But Cynthia
sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no wonder
that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her. He lapsed into an
awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.
"I hope you enjoyed the game," he said at last, with a formality that was
not at all characteristic.
Cynthia did not seem to think it worth while to answer this, so the
painter tried to help him out.
"That was a fine stop you made, Mr. Worthington," he said; "wasn't it,
Cynthia?"
"Everybody seemed to think so," answered Cynthia, cruelly; "but if I were
a man and had hands like that" (Bob thrust them in his pockets), "I
believe I could stop a ball, too."
Somers laughed uproariously.
"Good-by," said Bob, with uneasy abruptness, "I've got to go into the
field now. When can I see you?"
"When you get back from the West--perhaps," said Cynthia.
"Oh," cried Bob (they were calling him), "I must see you to-night!" He
vaulted over the railing and turned. "I'll come back here right after the
game," he said; "there's only one more inning."
"We'll come back right after the game," repeated Mr. Duncan.
Bob shot one look at him,--of which Mr. Duncan seemed blissfully
unconscious,--and stalked off abruptly to second base.
The artist sat pensive for a few moments, wondering at the ways of women,
his sympathies unaccountably enlisted in behalf of Mr. Worthington.
"Weren't you a little hard on him?" he said.
For answer Cynthia got to her feet.
"I think we ought to be going home," she said.
"Going home!" he ejaculated in amazement.
"I promised Uncle Jethro I'd be there for supper," and she led the way
out of the grand stand.
So they drove back to Coniston through the level evening light, and when
they came to Ephraim Prescott's harness shop the old soldier waved at
them cheerily from under the big flag which he had hung out in honor of
the day. The flag was silk, and incidentally Ephraim's most valued
possession. Then they drew up before the tannery house, and Cynthia
leaped out of the buggy and held out her hand to the painter with a
smile.
"It was very good of you to take me," she said.
Jethro Bass, rugged, uncouth, in rawhide boots and swallowtail and
coonskin cap, came down from the porch to welcome her, and she ran toward
him with an eagerness that started the painter to wondering afresh over
the contrasts of life. What, he asked himself, had Fate in store for
Cynthia Wetherell?