BOOK IV

Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger

CONISTON

By Winston Churchill

“We have been compelled to see what was weak in democracy as well as

what was strong. We have begun obscurely to recognize that things

do not go of themselves, and that popular government is not in

itself a panacea, is no better than any other form except as the

virtue and wisdom of the people make it so, and that when men

undertake to do their own kingship, they enter upon, the dangers and

responsibilities as well as the privileges of the function. Above

all, it looks as if we were on the way to be persuaded that no

government can be carried on by declamation.”

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

CONISTON

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

First I am to write a love-story of long ago, of a time some little

while after General Jackson had got into the White House and had shown

the world what a real democracy was. The Era of the first six Presidents

had closed, and a new Era had begun. I am speaking of political Eras.

Certain gentlemen, with a pious belief in democracy, but with a firmer

determination to get on top, arose,--and got in top. So many of these

gentlemen arose in the different states, and they were so clever, and

they found so many chinks in the Constitution to crawl through and steal

the people's chestnuts, that the Era may be called the Boss-Era. After

the Boss came along certain Things without souls, but of many minds,

and found more chinks in the Constitution: bigger chinks, for the Things

were bigger, and they stole more chestnuts. But I am getting far ahead

of my love-story--and of my book.

The reader is warned that this first love-story will, in a few chapters,

come to an end: and not to a happy end--otherwise there would be no

book. Lest he should throw the book away when he arrives at this page,

it is only fair to tell him that there is another and a much longer love

story later on, if he will only continue to read, in which, it is hoped,

he may not be disappointed.

The hills seem to leap up against the sky as I describe that region

where Cynthia Ware was born, and the very old country names help to

summon up the picture. Coniston Mountain, called by some the Blue

Mountain, clad in Hercynian forests, ten good miles in length, north and

south, with its notch road that winds over the saddle behind the withers

of it. Coniston Water, that oozes out from under the loam in a hundred

places, on the eastern slope, gathers into a rushing stream to cleave

the very granite, flows southward around the south end of Coniston

Mountain, and having turned the mills at Brampton, idles through meadows

westward in its own green valley until it comes to Harwich, where it

works again and tumbles into a river. Brampton and Harwich are rivals,

but Coniston Water gives of its power impartially to each. From the

little farm clearings on the western slope of Coniston Mountain you can

sweep the broad valley of a certain broad river where grew (and grow

still) the giant pines that gave many a mast to King George's navy as

tribute for the land. And beyond that river rises beautiful Farewell

Mountain of many colors, now sapphire, now amethyst, its crest rimmed

about at evening with saffron flame; and, beyond Farewell, the emerald

billows of the western peaks catching the level light. A dozen little

brooks are born high among the western spruces on Coniston to score

deep, cool valleys in their way through Clovelly township to the broad

music of the water and fresh river-valleys full of the music of the

water and fresh with the odor of the ferns.

To this day the railroad has not reached Coniston Village--nay, nor

Coniston Flat, four miles nearer Brampton. The village lies on its own

little shelf under the forest-clad slope of the mountain, and in the

midst of its dozen houses is the green triangle where the militia used

to drill on June days. At one end of the triangle is the great pine mast

that graced no frigate of George's, but flew the stars and stripes

on many a liberty day. Across the road is Jonah Winch's store, with a

platform so high that a man may step off his horse directly on to it;

with its checker-paned windows, with its dark interior smelling of

coffee and apples and molasses, yes, and of Endea rum--for this was

before the days of the revivals.

How those checker-paned windows bring back the picture of that village

green! The meeting-house has them, lantern-like, wide and high, in three

sashes--white meeting-house, seat alike of government and religion, with

its terraced steeple, with its classic porches north and south. Behind

it is the long shed, and in front, rising out of the milkweed and the

flowering thistle, the horse block of the first meeting-house, where

many a pillion has left its burden in times bygone. Honest Jock

Hallowell built that second meeting-house--was, indeed, still building

it at the time of which we write. He had hewn every beam and king post

in it, and set every plate and slip. And Jock Hallowell is the man who,

unwittingly starts this chronicle.

At noon, on one of those madcap April days of that Coniston country,

Jock descended from his work on the steeple to perceive the ungainly

figure of Jethro Bass coming toward him across the green. Jethro was

about thirty years of age, and he wore a coonskin cap even in those

days, and trousers tacked into his boots. He carried his big head

bent forward, a little to one aide, and was not, at first sight, a

prepossessing-looking person. As our story largely concerns him and we

must get started somehow, it may as well be to fix a little attention on

him.

“Heigho!” said Jock, rubbing his hands on his leather apron.

“H-how be you, Jock?” said Jethro, stopping.

“Heigho!” cried Jock, “what's this game of fox and geese you're

a-playin' among the farmers?”

“C-callate to git the steeple done before frost?” inquired Jethro,

without so much as a smile. “B-build it tight, Jock--b-build it tight.”

“Guess he'll build his'n tight, whatever it is,” said Jock, looking

after him as Jethro made his way to the little tannery near by.

Let it be known that there was such a thing as social rank in Coniston;

and something which, for the sake of an advantageous parallel, we may

call an Established Church. Coniston was a Congregational town still,

and the deacons and dignitaries of that church were likewise the pillars

of the state. Not many years before the time of which we write actual

disestablishment had occurred, when the town ceased--as a town--to pay

the salary of Priest Ware, as the minister was called. The father

of Jethro Bass, Nathan the currier, had once, in a youthful lapse,

permitted a Baptist preacher to immerse him in Coniston Water. This had

been the extent of Nathan's religion; Jethro had none at all, and was,

for this and other reasons, somewhere near the bottom of the social

scale.

“Fox and geese!” repeated Jock, with his eyes still on Jethro's

retreating back. The builder of the meetinghouse rubbed a great, brown

arm, scratched his head, and turned and came face to face with Cynthia

Ware, in a poke bonnet.

Contrast is a favorite trick of authors, and no greater contrast is to

be had in Coniston than that between Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass. In

the first place; Cynthia was the minister's daughter, and twenty-one.

I can summon her now under the great maples of the village street, a

virginal figure, gray eyes that kindled the face shaded by the poke

bonnet, and up you went above the clouds.

“What about fox and geese, Jock?” said Cynthia.

“Jethro Bass,” said Jock, who, by reason of his ability, was a

privileged character. “Mark my words, Cynthy, Jethro Bass is an

all-fired sight smarter that folks in this town think he be. They don't

take notice of him, because he don't say much, and stutters. He hain't

be'n eddicated a great deal, but I wouldn't be afeard to warrant he'd

make a racket in the world some of these days.”

“Jock Hallowell!” cried Cynthia, the gray beginning to dance, “I suppose

you think Jethro's going to be President.”

“All right,” said Jock, “you can laugh. Ever talked with Jethro?”

“I've hardly spoken two words to him in my life,” she replied. And it

was true, although the little white parsonage was scarce two hundred

yards from the tannery house.

“Jethro's never ailed much,” Jock remarked, having reference to

Cynthia's proclivities for visiting the sick. “I've seed a good many

different men in my time, and I tell you, Cynthia Ware, that Jethro's

got a kind of power you don't often come acrost. Folks don't suspicion

it.”

In spite of herself, Cynthia was impressed by the ring of sincerity in

the builder's voice. Now that she thought of it, there was rugged power

in Jethro's face, especially when he took off the coonskin cap. She

always nodded a greeting when she saw him in the tannery yard or on the

road, and sometimes he nodded back, but oftener he had not appeared to

see her. She had thought this failure to nod stupidity, but it might

after all be abstraction.

“What makes you think he has ability?” she asked, picking flowers from a

bunch of arbutus she held.

“He's rich, for one thing,” said Jock. He had not intended a

dissertation on Jethro Bass, but he felt bound to defend his statements.

“Rich!”

“Wal, he hain't poor. He's got as many as thirty mortgages round among

the farmers--some on land, and some on cattle.”

“How did he make the money?” demanded Cynthia, in surprise.

“Hides an' wool an' bark--turned 'em over an' swep' in. Gits a load, and

Lyman Hull drives him down to Boston with that six-hoss team. Lyman gits

drunk, Jethro keeps sober and saves.”

Jock began to fashion some wooden pegs with his adze, for nails were

scarce in those days. Still Cynthia lingered, picking flowers from the

bunch.

“What did you mean by 'fox and geese' Jock?” she said presently.

Jock laughed. He did not belong to the Establishment, but was a

Universalist; politically he admired General Jackson. “What'd you say if

Jethro was Chairman of the next Board of Selectmen?” he demanded.

No wonder Cynthia gasped. Jethro Bass, Chairman of the Board, in the

honored seat of Deacon Moses Hatch, the perquisite of the church in

Coniston! The idea was heresy. As a matter of fact, Jock himself uttered

it as a playful exaggeration. Certain nonconformist farmers, of whom

there were not a few in the town, had come into Jonah Winch's store that

morning; and Jabez Miller, who lived on the north slope, had taken away

the breath of the orthodox by suggesting that Jethro Bass be nominated

for town office. Jock Hallowell had paused once or twice on his work

on the steeple to look across the tree-tops at Coniston shouldering the

sky. He had been putting two and two together, and now he was merely

making five out of it, instead of four. He remembered that Jethro Bass

had for some years been journeying through the town, baying his hides

and wool, and collecting the interest on his mortgages.

Cynthia would have liked to reprove Jock Hallowell, and tell him

there were some subjects which should not be joked about. Jethro Bass,

Chairman of the Board of Selectmen!

“Well, here comes, young Moses, I do believe,” said Jock, gathering his

pegs into his apron and preparing to ascend once more. “Callated he'd

spring up pretty soon.”

“Jock, you do talk foolishly for a man who is able to build a church,”

said Cynthia, as she walked away. The young Moses referred to was Moses

Hatch, Junior, son of the pillar of the Church and State, and it was an

open secret that he was madly in love with Cynthia. Let it be said of

him that he was a steady-going young man, and that he sighed for the

moon.

“Moses,” said the girl, when they came in sight of the elms that, shaded

the gable of the parsonage, “what do you think of Jethro Bass?”

“Jethro Bass!” exclaimed honest Moses, “whatever put him into your head,

Cynthy?” Had she mentioned perhaps, any other young man in Coniston,

Moses would have been eaten with jealousy.

“Oh, Jock was joking about him. What do you think of him?”

“Never thought one way or t'other,” he answered. “Jethro never had

much to do with the boys. He's always in that tannery, or out buyin' of

hides. He does make a sharp bargain when he buys a hide. We always goes

shares on our'n.”

Cynthia was not only the minister's daughter,--distinction enough,--her

reputation for learning was spread through the country roundabout, and

at the age of twenty she had had an offer to teach school in Harwich.

Once a week in summer she went to Brampton, to the Social library there,

and sat at the feet of that Miss Lucretia Penniman of whom Brampton has

ever been so proud--Lucretia Penniman, one of the first to sound the

clarion note for the intellectual independence of American women; who

wrote the “Hymn to Coniston”; who, to the awe of her townspeople,

went out into the great world and became editress of a famous woman's

journal, and knew Longfellow and Hawthorne and Bryant. Miss Lucretia

it was who started the Brampton Social Library, and filled it with such

books as both sexes might read with profit. Never was there a stricter

index than hers. Cynthia, Miss Lucretia loved, and the training of that

mind was the pleasantest task of her life.

Curiosity as a factor has never, perhaps, been given its proper weight

by philosophers. Besides being fatal to a certain domestic animal, as

an instigating force it has brought joy and sorrow into the lives of men

and women, and made and marred careers. And curiosity now laid hold of

Cynthia Ware. Why in the world she should ever have been curious about

Jethro Bass is a mystery to many, for the two of them were as far apart

as the poles. Cynthia, of all people, took to watching the tanner's son,

and listening to the brief colloquies he had with other men at Jonah

Winch's store, when she went there to buy things for the parsonage; and

it seemed to her that Jock had not been altogether wrong, and that there

was in the man an indefinable but very compelling force. And when

a woman begins to admit that a man has force, her curiosity usually

increases. On one or two of these occasions Cynthia had been startled to

find his eyes fixed upon her, and though the feeling she had was closely

akin to fear, she found something distinctly pleasurable in it.

May came, and the pools dried up, the orchards were pink and white,

the birches and the maples were all yellow-green on the mountain sides

against the dark pines, and Cynthia was driving the minister's gig to

Brampton. Ahead of her, in the canon made by the road between the great

woods, strode an uncouth but powerful figure--coonskin cap, homespun

breeches tucked into boots, and all. The gig slowed down, and Cynthia

began to tremble with that same delightful fear. She knew it must be

wicked, because she liked it so much. Unaccountable thing! She felt

all akin to the nature about her, and her blood was coursing as the sap

rushes through a tree. She would not speak to him; of that she was sure,

and equally sure that he would not speak to her. The horse was walking

now, and suddenly Jethro Bass faced around, and her heart stood still.

“H-how be you, Cynthy?” he asked.

“How do you do, Jethro?”

A thrush in the woods began to sing a hymn, and they listened. After

that a silence, save for the notes of answering birds quickened by the

song, the minister's horse nibbling at the bushes. Cynthia herself could

not have explained why she lingered. Suddenly he shot a question at her.

“Where be you goin'?”

“To Brampton, to get Miss Lucretia to change this book,” and she held it

up from her lap. It was a very large book.

“Wh-what's it about,” he demanded.

“Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Who was be?”

“He was a very strong man. He began life poor and unknown, and fought

his way upward until he conquered the world.”

“C-conquered the world, did you say? Conquered the world?”

“Yes.”

Jethro pondered.

“Guess there's somethin' wrong about that book--somethin' wrong. Conquer

the United States?”

Cynthia smiled. She herself did not realize that we were not a part of

the world, then.

“He conquered Europe; where all the kings and queens are, and became a

king himself--an emperor.”

“I want to-know!” said Jethro. “You said he was a poor boy?”

“Why don't you read the book, Jethro?” Cynthia answered. “I am sure I

can get Miss Lucretia to let you have it.”

“Don't know as I'd understand it,” he demurred.

“I'll try to explain what you don't understand,” said Cynthia, and her

heart gave a bound at the very idea.

“Will You?” he said, looking at her eagerly. “Will you? You mean it?”

“Certainly,” she answered, and blushed, not knowing why. “I-I must be

going,” and she gathered up the reins.

“When will you give it to me?”

“I'll stop at the tannery when I come back from Brampton,” she said, and

drove on. Once she gave a fleeting glance over her shoulder, and he was

still standing where she had left him.

When she returned, in the yellow afternoon light that flowed over wood

and pasture, he came out of the tannery door. Jake Wheeler or Speedy

Bates, the journeyman tailoress, from whom little escaped, could not

have said it was by design--thought nothing, indeed, of that part of it.

“As I live!” cried Speedy from the window to Aunt Lucy Prescott in the

bed, “if Cynthy ain't givin' him a book as big as the Bible!”

Aunt Lucy hoped, first, that it was the Bible, and second, that Jethro

would read it. Aunt Lucy, and Established Church Coniston in general,

believed in snatching brands from the burning, and who so deft as

Cynthia at this kind of snatching! So Cynthia herself was a hypocrite

for once, and did not know it. At that time Jethro's sins were mostly

of omission. As far as rum was concerned, he was a creature after

Aunt Lucy's own heart, for he never touched it: true, gaunt Deacon

Ira Perkins, tithing-man, had once chided him for breaking the

Sabbath--shooting at a fox.

To return to the book. As long as he lived, Jethro looked back to the

joy of the monumental task of mastering its contents. In his mind,

Napoleon became a rough Yankee general; of the cities, villages, and

fortress he formed as accurate a picture as a resident of Venice from

Marco Polo's account of Tartary. Jethro had learned to read, after

a fashion, to write, add, multiply, and divide. He knew that George

Washington and certain barefooted companions had forced a proud Britain

to her knees, and much of the warring in the book took color from

Captain Timothy Prescott's stories of General Stark and his campaigns,

heard at Jonah Winch's store. What Paris looked like, or Berlin, or the

Hospice of St. Bernard--though imaged by a winter Coniston--troubled

Jethro not at all; the thing that stuck in his mind was that

Napoleon--for a considerable time, at least--compelled men to do his

bidding. Constitutions crumble before the Strong. Not that Jethro

philosophized about constitutions. Existing conditions presented

themselves, and it occurred to him that there were crevices in the town

system, and ways into power through the crevices for men clever enough

to find them.

A week later, and in these same great woods on the way to Brampton,

Cynthia overtook him once more. It was characteristic of him that he

plunged at once into the subject uppermost in his mind.

“Not a very big place, this Corsica--not a very big place.”

“A little island in the Mediterranean,” said Cynthia.

“Hum. Country folks, the Bonapartes--country folks?”

Cynthia laughed.

“I suppose you might call them so,” she said. “They were poor, and lived

out of the world.”

“He was a smart man. But he found things goin' his way. Didn't have to

move 'em.”

“Not at first;” she admitted; “but he had to move mountains later. How

far have you read?”

“One thing that helped him,” said Jethro, in indirect answer to this

question, “he got a smart woman for his wife--a smart woman.”

Cynthia looked down at the reins in her lap, and she felt again that

wicked stirring within her,--incredible stirring of minister's daughter

for tanner's son. Coniston believes, and always will believe, that the

social bars are strong enough. So Cynthia looked down at the reins.

“Poor Josephine!” she said, “I always wish he had not cast her off.”

“C-cast her off?” said Jethro. “Cast her off! Why did he do that?”

“After a while, when he got to be Emperor, he needed a wife who would

be more useful to him. Josephine had become a drag. He cared more about

getting on in the world than he did about his wife.”

Jethro looked away contemplatively.

“Wa-wahn't the woman to blame any?” he said.

“Read the book, and you'll see,” retorted Cynthia, flicking her horse,

which started at all gaits down the road. Jethro stood in his tracks,

staring, but this time he did not see her face above the hood of the

gig. Presently he trudged on, head downward, pondering upon another

problem than Napoleon's. Cynthia, at length, arrived in Brampton Street,

in a humor that puzzled the good Miss Lucretia sorely.

CHAPTER II

The sun had dropped behind the mountain, leaving Coniston in amethystine

shadow, and the last bee had flown homeward from the apple blossoms in

front of Aunt Lucy Prescott's window, before Cynthia returned. Aunt Lucy

was Cynthia's grandmother, and eighty-nine years of age. Still she sat

in her window beside the lilac bush, lost in memories of a stout, rosy

lass who had followed a stalwart husband up a broad river into the

wilderness some seventy years agone in Indian days--Weathersfield

Massacre days. That lass was Aunt Lucy herself, and in just such a May

had Timothy's axe rung through the Coniston forest and reared the log

cabin, where six of her children were born. Likewise in review passed

the lonely months when Timothy was fighting behind his rugged General

Stark for that privilege more desirable to his kind than life--self

government. Timothy Prescott would pull the forelock to no man, would

have such God-fearing persons as he chose make his laws for him.

Honest Captain Timothy and his Stark heroes, Aunt Lucy and her memories,

have long gone to rest. Little did they dream of the nation we have

lived to see, straining at her constitution like a great ship at anchor

in a gale, with funnels belching forth smoke, and a new race of men

thronging her decks for the mastery. Coniston is there still behind its

mountain, with its rusty firelocks and its hillside graves.

Cynthia, driving back from Brampton in the gig, smiled at Aunt Lucy

in the window, but she did not so much as glance at the tannery house

farther on. The tannery house, be it known, was the cottage where Jethro

dwelt, and which had belonged to Nathan, his father; and the tannery

sheds were at some distance behind it, nearer Coniston Water. Cynthia

did not glance at the tannery house, for a wave of orthodox indignation

had swept over her: at any rate, we may call it so. In other words,

she was angry with herself: pitied and scorned herself, if the truth be

told, for her actions--an inevitable mood.

In front of the minister's barn under the elms on the hill Cynthia

pulled the harness from the tired horse with an energy that betokened

activity of mind. She was not one who shrank from self-knowledge, and

the question put itself to her, “Whither was this matter tending?” The

fire that is in strong men has ever been a lure to women; and many,

meaning to play with it, have been burnt thereby since the world began.

But to turn the fire to some use, to make the world better for it or

stranger for it, that were an achievement indeed! The horse munching

his hay, Cynthia lingered as the light fainted above the ridge, with the

thought that this might be woman's province, and Miss Lucretia Penniman

might go on leading her women regiments to no avail. Nevertheless she

was angry with Jethro, not because of what he had said, but because of

what he was.

The next day is Sunday, and there is mild excitement in Coniston. For

Jethro Bass, still with the coonskin cap, but in a brass-buttoned

coat secretly purchased in Brampton, appeared at meeting! It made no

difference that he entered quietly, and sat in the rear slip, orthodox

Coniston knew that he was behind them: good Mr. Ware knew it, and

changed a little his prayers and sermon: Cynthia knew it, grew hot and

cold by turns under her poke bonnet. Was he not her brand, and would she

not get the credit of snatching him? How willingly, then, would she have

given up that credit to the many who coveted it--if it were a credit.

Was Jethro at meeting for any religious purpose?

Jethro's importance to Coniston lay in his soul, and that soul was

numbered at present ninety and ninth. When the meeting was over, Aunt

Lucy Prescott hobbled out at an amazing pace to advise him to read

chapter seven of Matthew, but he had vanished: via the horse sheds; if

she had known it, and along Coniston Water to the house by the tannery,

where he drew breath in a state of mind not to be depicted. He had gazed

at the back of Cynthia's poke bonnet for two hours, but he had an uneasy

feeling that he would have to pay a price.

The price was paid, in part, during the next six days. To do

Jethro's importance absolute justice, he did inspire fear among his

contemporaries, and young men and women did not say much to his face;

what they did say gave them little satisfaction. Grim Deacon Ira stopped

him as he was going to buy hides, and would have prayed over him if

Jethro had waited; dear Aunt Lucy did pray, but in private. In six days

orthodox Coniston came to the conclusion that this ninety and ninth soul

were better left to her who had snatched it, Cynthia Ware.

As for Cynthia, nothing was farther from her mind. Unchristian as was

the thought, if this thing she had awakened could only have been put

back to sleep again, she would have thought herself happy. But would

she have been happy? When Moses Hatch congratulated her, with more humor

than sincerity, he received the greatest scare of his life. Yet in those

days she welcomed Moses's society as she never had before; and Coniston,

including Moses himself, began thinking of a wedding.

Another Saturday came, and no Cynthia went to Brampton. Jethro may or

may not have been on the road. Sunday, and there was Jethro on the

back seat in the meetinghouse: Sunday noon, over his frugal dinner, the

minister mildly remonstrates with Cynthia for neglecting one who

has shown signs of grace, citing certain failures of others of his

congregation: Cynthia turns scarlet, leaving the minister puzzled and

a little uneasy: Monday, Miss Lucretia Penniman, alarmed, comes to

Coniston to inquire after Cynthia's health: Cynthia drives back with her

as far as Four Corners, talking literature and the advancement of woman;

returns on foot, thinking of something else, when she discerns a figure

seated on a log by the roadside, bent as in meditation. There was no

going back the thing to do was to come on, as unconcernedly as possible,

not noticing anything,--which Cynthia did, not without a little inward

palpitating and curiosity, for which she hated herself and looked the

sterner. The figure unfolded itself, like a Jack from a box.

“You say the woman wahn't any to blame--wahn't any to blame?”

The poke bonnet turned away. The shoulders under it began to shake, and

presently the astonished Jethro heard what seemed to be faint peals of

laughter. Suddenly she turned around to him, all trace of laughter gone.

“Why don't you read the book?”

“So I am,” said Jethro, “so I am. Hain't come to this casting-off yet.”

“And you didn't look ahead to find out?” This with scorn.

“Never heard of readin' a book in that fashion. I'll come to it in

time--g-guess it won't run away.”

Cynthia stared at him, perhaps with a new interest at this plodding

determination. She was not quite sure that she ought to stand talking

to him a third time in these woods, especially if the subject of

conversation were not, as Coniston thought, the salvation of his soul.

But she stayed. Here was a woman who could be dealt with by no known

rules, who did not even deign to notice a week of marked coldness.

“Jethro,” she said, with a terrifying sternness, “I am going to ask you

a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”

“G-guess I won't find any trouble about that,” said Jethro, apparently

not in the least terrified.

“I want you to tell me why you are going to meeting.”

“To see you,” said Jethro, promptly, “to see you.”

“Don't you know that that is wrong?”

“H-hadn't thought much about it,” answered Jethro.

“Well, you should think about it. People don't go to meeting to--to look

at other people.”

“Thought they did,” said Jethro. “W-why do they wear their best

clothes--why do they wear their best clothes?”

“To honor God,” said Cynthia, with a shade lacking in the conviction,

for she added hurriedly: “It isn't right for you to go to church to

see--anybody. You go there to hear the Scriptures expounded, and to

have your sins forgiven. Because I lent you that book, and you come to

meeting, people think I'm converting you.”

“So you be,” replied Jethro, and this time it was he who smiled, “so you

be.”

Cynthia turned away, her lips pressed together: How to deal with such a

man! Wondrous notes broke on the stillness, the thrush was singing

his hymn again, only now it seemed a paean. High in the azure a hawk

wheeled, and floated.

“Couldn't you see I was very angry with you?”

“S-saw you was goin' with Moses Hatch more than common.”

Cynthia drew breath sharply. This was audacity--and yet she liked it.

“I am very fond of Moses,” she said quickly.

“You always was charitable, Cynthy,” said he.

“Haven't I been charitable to you?” she retorted.

“G-guess it has be'n charity,” said Jethro. He looked down at her

solemnly, thoughtfully, no trace of anger in his face, turned, and

without another word strode off in the direction of Coniston Flat.

He left a tumultuous Cynthia, amazement and repentance struggling with

anger, which forbade her calling him back: pride in her answering to

pride in him, and she rejoicing fiercely that he had pride. Had he but

known it, every step he took away from her that evening was a step in

advance, and she gloried in the fact that he did not once look back. As

she walked toward Coniston, the thought came to her that she was rid of

the thing she had stirred up, perhaps forever, and the thrush burst into

his song once more.

That night, after Cynthia's candle had gone out, when the minister

sat on his doorsteps looking at the glory of the moon on the mountain

forest, he was startled by the sight of a figure slowly climbing toward

him up the slope. A second glance told him that it was Jethro's. Vaguely

troubled, he watched his approach; for good Priest Ware, while able

to obey one-half the scriptural injunction, had not the wisdom of the

serpent, and women, as typified by Cynthia, were a continual puzzle to

him. That very evening, Moses Hatch had called, had been received with

more favor than usual, and suddenly packed off about his business.

Seated in the moonlight, the minister wondered vaguely whether Jethro

Bass were troubling the girl. And now Jethro stood before him,

holding out a book. Rising, Mr. Ware bade him good evening, mildly and

cordially.

“C-come to leave this book for Cynthy,” said Jethro.

Mr. Ware took it, mechanically.

“Have you finished it?” he asked kindly.

“All I want,” replied Jethro, “all I want.”

He turned, and went down the slope. Twice the words rose to the

minister's lips to call him back, and were suppressed. Yet what to say

to him if he came? Mr. Ware sat down again, sadly wondering why Jethro

Bass should be so difficult to talk to.

The parsonage was of only one story, with a steep, sloping roof. On the

left of the doorway was Cynthia's room, and the minister imagined he

heard a faint, rustling noise at her window. Presently he arose, barred

the door; could be heard moving around in his room for a while,

and after that all was silence save for the mournful crying of a

whippoorwill in the woods. Then a door opened softly, a white vision

stole into the little entry lighted by the fan-window, above, seized

the book and stole back. Had the minister been a prying man about his

household, he would have noticed next day that Cynthia's candle was

burned down to the socket. He saw nothing of the kind: he saw, in fact,

that his daughter flitted about the house singing, and he went out into

the sun to drop potatoes.

No sooner had he reached the barn than this singing ceased. But how was

Mr. Ware to know that?

Twice Cynthia, during the week that followed, got halfway down the

slope of the parsonage hill, the book under her arm, on her way to the

tannery; twice went back, tears of humiliation and self-pity in her eyes

at the thought that she should make advances to a man, and that man

the tanner's son. Her household work done, a longing for further motion

seized her, and she walked out under the maples of the village street.

Let it be understood that Coniston was a village, by courtesy, and its

shaded road a street. Suddenly, there was the tannery, Jethro standing

in front of it, contemplative. Did he see her? Would he come to her?

Cynthia, seized by a panic of shame, flew into Aunt Lucy Prescott's, sat

through half an hour of torture while Aunt Lucy talked of redemption of

sinners, during ten minutes of which Jethro stood, still contemplative.

What tumult was in his breast, or whether there was any tumult, Cynthia

knew not. He went into the tannery again, and though she saw him twice

later in the week, he gave no sign of seeing her.

On Saturday Cynthia bought a new bonnet in Brampton; Sunday morning put

it on, suddenly remembered that one went to church to honor God, and

wore her old one; walked to meeting in a flutter of expectancy not to be

denied, and would have looked around had that not been a cardinal sin

in Coniston. No Jethro! General opinion (had she waited to hear it among

the horse sheds or on the green), that Jethro's soul had slid back into

the murky regions, from which it were folly for even Cynthia to try to

drag it.

CHAPTER III

To prove that Jethro's soul had not slid back into the murky regions,

and that it was still indulging in flights, it is necessary to follow

him (for a very short space) to Boston. Jethro himself went in Lyman

Hull's six-horse team with a load of his own merchandise--hides that he

had tanned, and other country produce. And they did not go by the way of

Truro Pass to the Capital, but took the state turnpike over the ranges,

where you can see for miles and miles and miles on a clear summer

day across the trembling floors of the forest tops to lonely sentinel

mountains fourscore miles away.

No one takes the state turnpike nowadays except crazy tourists who

are willing to risk their necks and their horses' legs for the sake of

scenery. The tough little Morgans of that time, which kept their feet

like cats, have all but disappeared, but there were places on that road

where Lyman Hull put the shoes under his wheels for four miles at a

stretch. He was not a companion many people would have chosen with whom

to enjoy the beauties of such a trip, and nearly everybody in Coniston

was afraid of him. Jethro Bass would sit silent on the seat for hours

and--it is a fact to be noted that when he told Lyman to do a thing,

Lyman did it; not, perhaps, without cursing and grumbling. Lyman was a

profane and wicked man--drover, farmer, trader, anything. He had a cider

mill on his farm on the south slopes of Coniston which Mr. Ware had

mentioned in his sermons, and which was the resort of the ungodly. The

cider was not so good as Squire Northcutt's, but cheaper. Jethro was not

afraid of Lyman, and he had a mortgage on the six-horse team, and on the

farm and the cider mill.

After six days, Jethro and Lyman drove over Charlestown bridge and

into the crooked streets of Boston, and at length arrived at a drover's

hotel, or lodging-house that did not, we may be sure, front on Mount

Vernon Street or face the Mall. Lyman proceeded to get drunk, and Jethro

to sell the hides and other merchandise which Lyman had hauled for him.

There was a young man in Boston, when Jethro arrived in Lyman Hull's

team, named William Wetherell. By extraordinary circumstances he and

another connected with him are to take no small part in this story,

which is a sufficient excuse for his introduction. His father had been

a prosperous Portsmouth merchant in the West India trade, a man of many

attainments, who had failed and died of a broken heart; and William, at

two and twenty, was a clerk in the little jewellery shop of Mr. Judson

in Cornhill.

William Wetherell had literary aspirations, and sat from morning till

night behind the counter, reading and dreaming: dreaming that he was to

be an Irving or a Walter Scott, and yet the sum total of his works in

after years consisted of some letters to the Newcastle Guardian, and a

beginning of the Town History of Coniston!

William had a contempt for the awkward young countryman who suddenly

loomed up before him that summer's morning across the counter. But a

moment before the clerk had been in a place where he would fain have

lingered--a city where blue waters flow swiftly between white palaces

toward the sunrise.

“And I have fitted up some chambers there

Looking toward the golden Eastern air,

And level with the living winds, which flow

Like waves above the living waves below.”

Little did William Wetherell guess, when he glanced up at the intruder,

that he was looking upon one of the forces of his own life! The

countryman wore a blue swallow tail coat (fashioned by the hand of

Speedy Bates), a neck-cloth, a coonskin cap, and his trousers were

tucked into rawhide boots. He did not seem a promising customer for

expensive jewellery, and the literary clerk did not rise, but merely

closed his book with his thumb in it.

“S-sell things here,” asked the countryman, “s-sell things here?”

“Occasionally, when folks have money to buy them.”

“My name's Jethro Bass,” said the countryman, “Jethro Bass from

Coniston. Ever hear of Coniston?”

Young Mr. Wetherell never had, but many years afterward he remembered

his name, heaven knows why. Jethro Bass! Perhaps it had a strange ring

to it.

“F-folks told me to be careful,” was Jethro's next remark. He did not

look at the clerk, but kept his eyes fixed on the things within the

counter.

“Somebody ought to have come with you,” said the clerk, with a smile of

superiority.

“D-don't know much about city ways.”

“Well,” said the clerk, beginning to be amused, “a man has to keep his

wits about him.”

Even then Jethro spared him a look, but continued to study the contents

of the case.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bass? We have some really good things here.

For example, this Swiss watch, which I will sell you cheap, for one

hundred and fifty dollars.”

“One hundred and fifty dollars--er--one hundred and fifty?”

Wetherell nodded. Still the countryman did not look up.

“F-folks told me to be careful,” he repeated without a smile. He was

looking at the lockets, and finally pointed a large finger at one of

them--the most expensive, by the way. “W-what d'ye get for that?” he

asked.

“Twenty dollars,” the clerk promptly replied. Thirty was nearer the

price, but what did it matter.

“H-how much for that?” he said, pointing to another. The clerk told him.

He inquired about them all, deliberately repeating the sums, considering

with so well-feigned an air of a purchaser that Mr. Wetherell began to

take a real joy in the situation. For trade was slack in August, and

diversion scarce. Finally he commanded that the case be put on the top

of the counter, and Wetherell humored him. Whereupon he picked up the

locket he had first chosen. It looked very delicate in his huge, rough

hand, and Wetherell was surprised that the eyes of Mr. Bass had been

caught by the most expensive, for it was far from being the showiest.

“T-twenty dollars?” he asked.

“We may as well call it that,” laughed Wetherell.

“It's not too good for Cynthy,” he said.

“Nothing's too good for Cynthy,” answered Mr. Wetherell, mockingly,

little knowing how he might come to mean it.

Jethro Bass paid no attention to this speech. Pulling a great cowhide

wallet from his pocket, still holding the locket in his hand, to the

amazement of the clerk he counted out twenty dollars and laid them down.

“G-guess I'll take that one, g-guess I'll take that one,” he said.

Then he looked at Mr. Wetherell for the first time.

“Hold!” cried the clerk, more alarmed than he cared to show, “that's not

the price. Did you think I could sell it for that price?”

“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?”

“You simpleton!” retorted Wetherell, with a conviction now that he was

calling him the wrong name. “Give me back the locket, and you shall have

your money, again.”

“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?”

“Yes, but--”

“G-guess I'll keep the locket--g-guess I'll keep the locket.”

Wetherell looked at him aghast, and there was no doubt about his

determination. With a sinking heart the clerk realized that he should

have to make good to Mr. Judson the seven odd dollars of difference,

and then he lost his head. Slipping round the counter to the door of

the shop, he turned the key, thrust it in his pocket, and faced Mr. Bass

again--from behind the counter.

“You don't leave this shop,” cried the clerk, “until you give me back

that locket.”

Jethro Bass turned. A bench ran along the farther wall, and there he

planted himself without a word, while the clerk stared at him,--with

what feelings of uneasiness I shall not attempt to describe,--for the

customer was plainly determined to wait until hunger should drive one

of them forth. The minutes passed, and Wetherell began to hate him. Then

some one tried the door, peered in through the glass, perceived Jethro,

shook the knob, knocked violently, all to no purpose. Jethro seemed lost

in a reverie.

“This has gone far enough,” said the clerk, trying to keep his voice

from shaking “it is beyond a joke. Give me back the locket.” And he

tendered Jethro the money again.

“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?” asked Jethro, innocently.

Wetherell choked. The man outside shook the door again, and people on

the sidewalk stopped, and presently against the window panes a sea of

curious faces gazed in upon them. Mr. Bass's thoughts apparently were

fixed on Eternity--he looked neither at the people nor at Wetherell. And

then, the crowd parting as for one in authority, as in a bad dream

the clerk saw his employer, Mr. Judson, courteously pushing away the

customer at the door who would not be denied. Another moment, and Mr.

Judson had gained admittance with his private key, and stood on the

threshold staring at clerk and customer. Jethro gave no sign that the

situation had changed.

“William,” said Mr. Judson, in a dangerously quiet voice, “perhaps you

can explain this extraordinary state of affairs.”

“I can, sir,” William cried. “This gentleman” (the word stuck in his

throat), “this gentleman came in here to examine lockets which I had

no reason to believe he would buy. I admit my fault, sir. He asked the

price of the most expensive, and I told him twenty dollars, merely for a

jest, sir.” William hesitated.

“Well?” said Mr. Judson.

“After pricing every locket in the case, he seized the first one, handed

me twenty dollars, and now refuses to give it up, although he knows the

price is twenty-seven.”

“Then?”

“Then I locked the door, sir. He sat down there, and hasn't moved

since.”

Mr. Judson looked again at Mr. Bass; this time with unmistakable

interest. The other customer began to laugh, and the crowd was pressing

in, and Mr. Judson turned and shut the door in their faces. All this

time Mr. Bass had not moved, not so much as to lift his head or shift

one of his great cowhide boots.

“Well, sir,” demanded Mr. Judson, “what have you to say?”

“N-nothin'. G-guess I'll keep the locket. I've, paid for it--I've paid

for it.”

“And you are aware, my friend,” said Mr. Judson, “that my clerk has

given you the wrong price?”

“Guess that's his lookout.” He still sat there, doggedly unconcerned.

A bull would have seemed more at home in a china shop than Jethro

Bass in a jewellery store. But Mr. Judson himself was a man out of the

ordinary, and instead of getting angry he began to be more interested.

“Took you for a greenhorn, did he?” he remarked.

“F-folks told me to be careful--to be careful,” said Mr. Bass.

Then Mr. Judson laughed. It was all the more disconcerting to William

Wetherell, because his employer laughed rarely. He laid his hand on

Jethro's shoulder.

“He might have spared himself the trouble, my young friend,” he said.

“You didn't expect to find a greenhorn behind a jewellery counter, did

you?”

“S-surprised me some,” said Jethro.

Mr. Judson laughed again, all the while looking at him.

“I am going to let you keep the locket,” he said, “because it will teach

my greenhorn a lesson. William, do you hear that?”

“Yes, sir,” William said, and his face was very red.

Mr. Bass rose solemnly, apparently unmoved by his triumph in a somewhat

remarkable transaction, and William long remembered how he towered over

all of them. He held the locket out to Mr. Judson, who stared at it,

astonished.

“What's this?” said that gentleman; “you don't want it?”

“Guess I'll have it marked,” said Jethro, “ef it don't cost extry.”

“Marked!” gasped Mr. Judson, “marked!”

“Ef it don't cost extry,” Jethro repeated.

“Well, I'll--” exclaimed Mr. Judson, and suddenly recalled the fact that

he was a church member. “What inscription do you wish put into it?” he

asked, recovering himself with an effort.

Jethro thrust his hand into his pocket, and again the cowhide wallet

came out. He tendered Mr. Judson a somewhat soiled piece of paper, and

Mr. Judson read:--

“Cynthy, from Jethro”

“Cynthy,” Mr. Judson repeated, in a tremulous voice, “Cynthy, not

Cynthia.”

“H-how is it written,” said Jethro, leaning over it, “h-how is it

written?”

“Cynthy,” answered Mr. Judson, involuntarily.

“Then make it Cynthy--make it Cynthy.”

“Cynthy it shall be,” said Mr. Judson, with conviction.

“When'll you have it done?”

“To-night,” replied Mr. Judson, with a twinkle in his eye, “to-night, as

a special favor.”

“What time--w-what time?”

“Seven o'clock, sir. May I send it to your hotel? The Tremont House, I

suppose?”

“I-I'll call,” said Jethro, so solemnly that Mr. Judson kept his

laughter until he was gone.

From the door they watched him silently as he strode across the street

and turned the corner. Then Mr. Judson turned. “That man will make his

mark, William,” he said; and added thoughtfully, “but whether for good

or evil, I know not.”

CHAPTER IV

What Cynthia may have thought or felt during Jethro's absence in Boston,

and for some months thereafter, she kept to herself. Honest Moses Hatch

pursued his courting untroubled, and never knew that he had a rival.

Moses would as soon have questioned the seasons or the weather as

Cynthia's changes of moods,--which were indeed the weather for him, and

when storms came he sat with his back to them, waiting for the sunshine.

He had long ceased proposing marriage, in the firm belief that Cynthia

would set the day in her own good time. Thereby he was saved much

suffering.

The summer flew on apace, for Coniston. Fragrant hay was cut on

hillsides won from rock and forest, and Coniston Water sang a gentler

melody--save when the clouds floated among the spruces on the mountain

and the rain beat on the shingles. During the still days before the turn

of the year,--days of bending fruit boughs, crab-apples glistening red

in the soft sunlight,--rumor came from Brampton to wrinkle the forehead

of Moses Hatch as he worked among his father's orchards.

The rumor was of a Mr. Isaac Dudley Worthington, a name destined to

make much rumor before it was to be carved on the marble. Isaac D.

Worthington, indeed, might by a stretch of the imagination be called the

pioneer of all the genus to be known in the future as City Folks, who

were, two generations later, to invade the country like a devouring army

of locusts.

At that time a stranger in Brampton was enough to set the town agog.

But a young man of three and twenty, with an independent income of four

hundred dollars a year!--or any income at all not derived from his own

labor--was unheard of. It is said that when the stage from over Truro

Gap arrived in Brampton Street a hundred eyes gazed at him unseen, from

various ambushes, and followed him up the walk to Silas Wheelock's,

where he was to board. In half an hour Brampton knew the essentials

of Isaac Worthington's story, and Sam Price was on his way with it to

Coniston for distribution at Jonah Winch's store.

Young Mr. Worthington was from Boston--no less; slim, pale, medium

height, but with an alert look, and a high-bridged nose. But his

clothes! Sam Price's vocabulary was insufficient here, they were cut

in such a way, and Mr. Worthington was downright distinguished-looking

under his gray beaver. Why had he come to Brampton? demanded Deacon

Ira Perkins. Sam had saved this for the last. Young Mr. Worthington was

threatened with consumption, and had been sent to live with his distant

relative, Silas Wheelock.

The presence of a gentleman of leisure--although threatened with

consumption--became an all-absorbing topic in two villages and three

hamlets, and more than one swain, hitherto successful, felt the wind

blow colder. But in a fortnight it was known that a petticoat did not

make Isaac Worthington even turn his head. Curiosity centred on Silas

Wheelock's barn, where Mr. Worthington had fitted up a shop, and,

presently various strange models of contrivances began to take shape

there. What these were, Silas himself knew not; and the gentleman of

leisure was, alas! close-mouthed. When he was not sawing and hammering

and planing, he took long walks up and down Coniston Water, and was

surprised deep in thought at several places.

Nathan Bass's story-and-a-half house, devoid of paint, faced the road,

and behind it was the shed, or barn, that served as the tannery, and

between the tannery and Coniston Water were the vats. The rain flew in

silvery spray, and the drops shone like jewels on the coat of a young

man who stood looking in at the tannery door. Young Jake Wheeler, son of

the village spendthrift, was driving a lean white horse round in a ring:

to the horse was attached a beam, and on the beam a huge round stone

rolled on a circular oak platform. Jethro Bass, who was engaged in

pushing hemlock bark under the stone to be crushed, straightened. Of the

three, the horse had seen the visitor first, and stopped in his tracks.

“Jethro!” whispered Jake, tingling with an excitement that was but

natural. Jethro had begun to sweep the finer pieces of bark toward the

centre. “It's the city man, walked up here from Brampton.”

It was indeed Mr. Worthington, slightly more sunburned and less

citified-looking than on his arrival, and he wore a woollen cap of

Brampton make. Even then, despite his wavy hair and delicate appearance,

Isaac Worthington had the hawk-like look which became famous in later

years, and at length he approached Jethro and fixed his eye upon him.

“Kind of slow work, isn't it?” remarked Mr. Worthington.

The white horse was the only one to break the silence that followed, by

sneezing with all his might.

“How is the tannery business in these parts?” essayed Mr. Worthington

again.

“Thinkin' of it?” said Jethro. “T-thinkin' of it, be you?”

“No,” answered Mr. Worthington, hastily. “If I were,” he added, “I'd put

in new machinery. That horse and stone is primitive.”

“What kind of machinery would you put in?” asked Jethro.

“Ah,” answered Worthington, “that will interest you. All New Englanders

are naturally progressive, I take it.”

“W-what was it you took?”

“I was merely remarking on the enterprise of New Englanders,” said

Worthington, flushing. “On my journey up here, beside the Merrimac, I

had the opportunity to inspect the new steam-boiler, the falling-mill,

the splitting machine, and other remarkable improvements. In fact, these

suggested one or two little things to me, which might be of interest to

you.”

“Well,” said Jethro, “they might, and then again they mightn't. Guess it

depends.”

“Depends!” exclaimed the man of leisure, “depends on what?”

“H-how much you know about it.”

Young Mr. Worthington, instead of being justly indignant, laughed and

settled himself comfortably on a pile of bark. He thought Jethro a

character, and he was not mistaken. On the other hand, Mr. Worthington

displayed a knowledge of the falling-mill and splitting-machine and the

process of tanneries in general that was surprising. Jethro, had Mr.

Worthington but known it, was more interested in animate machines: more

interested in Mr. Worthington than the falling-mill or, indeed, the

tannery business.

At length the visitor fell silent, his sense of superiority suddenly

gone. Others had had this same feeling with Jethro, even the minister;

but the man of leisure (who was nothing of the sort) merely felt a kind

of bewilderment.

“Callatin' to live in Brampton--be you?” asked Jethro.

“I am living there now.”

“C-callatin' to set up a mill some day?”

Mr. Worthington fairly leaped off the bark pile.

“What makes you say that?” he demanded.

“G-guesswork,” said Jethro, starting to shovel again, “g-guesswork.”

To take a walk in the wild, to come upon a bumpkin in cowhide boots

crushing bark, to have him read within twenty minutes a cherished and

well-hidden ambition which Brampton had not discovered in a month (and

did not discover for many years) was sufficiently startling. Well might

Mr. Worthington tremble for his other ambitions, and they were many.

Jethro stepped out, passing Mr. Worthington as though he had already

forgotten that gentleman's existence, and seized an armful of bark that

lay under cover of a lean-to. Just then, heralded by a brightening of

the western sky, a girl appeared down the road, her head bent a little

as in thought, and if she saw the group by the tannery house she gave

no sign. Two of them stared at her--Jake Wheeler and Mr. Worthington.

Suddenly Jake, implike, turned and stared at Worthington.

“Cynthy Ware, the minister's daughter,” he said.

“Haven't I seen her in Brampton?” inquired Mr. Worthington, little

thinking of the consequences of the question.

“Guess you have,” answered Jake. “Cynthy goes to the Social Library, to

git books. She knows more'n the minister himself, a sight more.”

“Where does the minister live?” asked Mr. Worthington.

Jake pulled him by the sleeve toward the road, and pointed to the low

gable of the little parsonage under the elms on the hill beyond the

meeting-house. The visitor gave a short glance at it, swung around and

gave a longer glance at the figure disappearing in the other direction.

He did not suspect that Jake was what is now called a news agency. Then

Mr. Worthington turned to Jethro, who was stooping over the bark.

“If you come to Brampton, call and see me,” he said. “You'll find me at

Silas Wheelock's.”

He got no answer, but apparently expected none, and he started off down

the Brampton road in the direction Cynthia had taken.

“That makes another,” said Jake, significantly, “and Speedy Bates says

he never looks at wimmen. Godfrey, I wish I could see Moses now.”

Mr. Worthington had not been quite ingenuous with Jake. To tell the

truth, he had made the acquaintance of the Social Library and Miss

Lucretia, and that lady had sung the praises of her favorite. Once out

of sight of Jethro, Mr. Worthington quickened his steps, passed the

store, where he was remarked by two of Jonah's customers, and his blood

leaped when he saw the girl in front of him, walking faster now. Yes,

it is a fact that Isaac Worthington's blood once leaped. He kept on, but

when near her had a spasm of fright to make his teeth fairly chatter,

and than another spasm followed, for Cynthia had turned around.

“How do you do Mr. Worthington?” she said, dropping him a little

courtesy. Mr. Worthington stopped in his tracks, and it was some time

before he remembered to take off his woollen cap and sweep the mud with

it.

“You know my name!” he exclaimed.

“It is known from Tarleton Four Corners to Harwich,” said Cynthia, “all

that distance. To tell the truth,” she added, “those are the boundaries

of my world.” And Mr. Worthington being still silent, “How do you like

being a big frog in a little pond?”

“If it were your pond, Miss Cynthia,” he responded gallantly, “I should

be content to be a little frog.”

“Would you?” she said; “I don't believe you.”

This was not subtle flattery, but the truth--Mr. Worthington would never

be content to be a little anything. So he had been judged twice in an

afternoon, once by Jethro and again by Cynthia.

“Why don't you believe me?” he asked ecstatically.

“A woman's instinct, Mr. Worthington, has very little reason in it.”

“I hear, Miss Cynthia,” he said gallantly, “that your instinct is

fortified by learning, since Miss Penniman tells me that you are quite

capable of taking a school in Boston.”

“Then I should be doubly sure of your character,” she retorted with a

twinkle.

“Will you tell my fortune?” he said gayly.

“Not on such a slight acquaintance,” she replied. “Good-by, Mr.

Worthington.”

“I shall see you in Brampton,” he cried, “I--I have seen you in

Brampton.”

She did not answer this confession, but left him, and presently

disappeared beyond the triangle of the green, while Mr. Worthington

pursued his way to Brampton by the road,--his thoughts that evening not

on waterfalls or machinery. As for Cynthia's conduct, I do not defend or

explain it, for I have found out that the best and wisest of women can

at times be coquettish.

It was that meeting which shook the serenity of poor Moses, and he

learned of it when he went to Jonah Winch's store an hour later. An

hour later, indeed, Coniston was discussing the man of leisure in a

new light. It was possible that Cynthia might take him, and Deacon Ira

Perkins made a note the next time he went to Brampton to question Silas

Wheelock on Mr. Worthington's origin, habits, and orthodoxy.

Cynthia troubled herself very little about any of these. Scarcely any

purpose in the world is single, but she had had a purpose in talking

to Mr. Worthington, besides the pleasure it gave her. And the next

Saturday, when she rode off to Brampton, some one looked through the

cracks in the tannery shed and saw that she wore her new bonnet.

There is scarcely a pleasanter place in the world than Brampton Street

on a summer's day. Down the length of it runs a wide green, shaded by

spreading trees, and on either side, tree-shaded, too, and each in its

own little plot, gabled houses of that simple, graceful architecture of

our forefathers. Some of these had fluted pilasters and cornices, the

envy of many a modern architect, and fan-shaped windows in dormer and

doorway. And there was the church, then new, that still stands to the

glory of its builders; with terraced steeple and pillared porch and the

widest of checker-paned sashes to let in the light on high-backed pews

and gallery.

The celebrated Social Library, halfway up the street, occupied part of

Miss Lucretia's little house; or, it might better be said, Miss Lucretia

boarded with the Social Library. There Cynthia hitched her horse, gave

greeting to Mr. Ezra Graves and others who paused, and, before she was

fairly in the door, was clasped in Miss Lucretia's arms. There were new

books to be discussed, arrived by the stage the day before; but scarce

half an hour had passed before Cynthia started guiltily at a timid

knock, and Miss Lucretia rose briskly.

“It must be Ezra Graves come for the Gibbon,” she said. “He's early.”

And she went to the door. Cynthia thought it was not Ezra. Then came

Miss Lucretia's voice from the entry:--

“Why, Mr. Worthington! Have you read the Last of the Mohicans already?”

There he stood, indeed, the man of leisure, and to-day he wore his

beaver hat. No, he had not yet read the 'Last of the Mohicans.' There

were things in it that Mr. Worthington would like to discuss with Miss

Penniman. Was it not a social library? At this juncture there came a

giggle from within that made him turn scarlet, and he scarcely heard

Miss Lucretia offering to discuss the whole range of letters. Enter Mr.

Worthington, bows profoundly to Miss Lucretia's guest, his beaver in his

hand, and the discussion begins, Cynthia taking no part in it. Strangely

enough, Mr. Worthington's remarks on American Indians are not only

intelligent, but interesting. The clock strikes four, Miss Lucretia

starts up, suddenly remembering that she has promised to read to an

invalid, and with many regrets from Mr. Worthington, she departs. Then

he sits down again, twirling his beaver, while Cynthia looks at him in

quiet amusement.

“I shall walk to Coniston again, next week,” he announced.

“What an energetic man!” said Cynthia.

“I want to have my fortune told.”

“I hear that you walk a great deal,” she remarked, “up and down Coniston

Water. I shall begin to think you romantic, Mr. Worthington--perhaps a

poet.”

“I don't walk up and down Coniston Water for that reason,” he answered

earnestly.

“Might I be so bold as to ask the reason?” she ventured.

Great men have their weaknesses. And many, close-mouthed with their own

sex, will tell their cherished hopes to a woman, if their interests

are engaged. With a bas-relief of Isaac Worthington in the town library

to-day (his own library), and a full-length portrait of him in the

capitol of the state, who shall deny this title to greatness?

He leaned a little toward her, his face illumined by his subject, which

was himself.

“I will confide in you,” he said, “that some day I shall build here in

Brampton a woollen mill which will be the best of its kind. If I gain

money, it will not be to hoard it or to waste it. I shall try to make

the town better for it, and the state, and I shall try to elevate my

neighbors.”

Cynthia could not deny that these were laudable ambitions.

“Something tells me,” he continued, “that I shall succeed. And that is

why I walk on Coniston Water--to choose the best site for a dam.”

“I am honored by your secret, but I feel that the responsibility you

repose in me is too great,” she said.

“I can think of none in whom I would rather confide,” said he.

“And am I the only one in all Brampton, Harwich, and Coniston who knows

this?” she asked.

Mr. Worthington laughed.

“The only one of importance,” he answered. “This week, when I went to

Coniston, I had a strange experience. I left the brook at a tannery, and

a most singular fellow was in the shed shovelling bark. I tried to get

him to talk, and told him about some new tanning machinery I had seen.

Suddenly he turned on me and asked me if I was 'callatin' to set up a

mill.' He gave me a queer feeling. Do you have many such odd characters

in Coniston, Miss Cynthia? You're not going?”

Cynthia had risen, and all of the laugher was gone from her eyes. What

had happened to make her grow suddenly grave, Isaac Worthington never

knew.

“I have to get my father's supper,” she said.

He, too, rose, puzzled and disconcerted at this change in her.

“And may I not come to Coniston?” he asked.

“My father and I should be glad to see you, Mr. Worthington,” she

answered.

He untied her horse and essayed one more topic.

“You are taking a very big book,” he said. “May I look at the title?”

She showed it to him in silence. It was the “Life of Napoleon

Bonaparte.”

CHAPTER V

Isaac Worthington came to Coniston not once, but many times, before the

snow fell; and afterward, too, in Silas Wheelock's yellow sleigh through

the great drifts under the pines, the chestnut Morgan trotting to one

side in the tracks. On one of these excursions he fell in with that

singular character of a bumpkin who had interested him on his first

visit, in coonskin cap and overcoat and mittens. Jethro Bass was

plodding in the same direction, and Isaac Worthington, out of the

goodness of his heart, invited him into the sleigh. He was scarcely

prepared for the bumpkin's curt refusal, but put it down to native

boorishness, and thought no more about it then.

What troubled Mr. Worthington infinitely more was the progress of his

suit; for it had become a snit, though progress is a wrong word to use

in connection with it. So far had he got,--not a great distance,--and

then came to what he at length discovered was a wall, and apparently

impenetrable. He was not even allowed to look over it. Cynthia was kind,

engaging; even mirthful, at times, save when he approached it; and he

became convinced that a certain sorrow lay in the forbidden ground. The

nearest he had come to it was when he mentioned again, by accident, that

life of Napoleon.

That Cynthia would accept him, nobody doubted for an instant. It would

be madness not to. He was orthodox, so Deacon Ira had discovered, of

good habits, and there was the princely four hundred a year--almost

a minister's salary! Little people guessed that there was no

love-making--only endless discussions of books beside the great centre

chimney, and discussions of Isaac Worthington's career.

It is a fact--for future consideration--that Isaac Worthington proposed

to Cynthia Ware, although neither Speedy Bates nor Deacon Ira Perkins

heard him do so. It had been very carefully prepared, that speech,

and was a model of proposals for the rising young men of all time. Mr.

Worthington preferred to offer himself for what he was going to be--not

for what he was. He tendered to Cynthia a note for a large amount,

payable in some twenty years, with interest. The astonishing thing to

record is that in twenty years he could have more than paid the note,

although he could not have foreseen at that time the Worthington Free

Library and the Truro Railroad, and the stained-glass window in the

church and the great marble monument on the hill--to another woman.

All of these things, and more, Cynthia might have had if she had only

accepted that promise to pay! But she did not accept it. He was a trifle

more robust than when he came to Brampton in the summer, but perhaps she

doubted his promise to pay.

It may have been guessed, although the language we have used has been

purposely delicate, that Cynthia was already in love with--somebody

else. Shame of shames and horror of horrors--with Jethro Bass! With

Strength, in the crudest form in which it is created, perhaps, but yet

with Strength. The strength might gradually and eventually be refined.

Such was her hope, when she had any. It is hard, looking back upon that

virginal and cultured Cynthia, to be convinced that she could have loved

passionately, and such a man! But love she did, and passionately, too,

and hated herself for it, and prayed and struggled to cast out what she

believed, at times, to be a devil.

The ancient allegory of Cupid and the arrows has never been improved

upon: of Cupid, who should never in the world have been trusted with a

weapon, who defies all game laws, who shoots people in the bushes and

innocent bystanders generally, the weak and the helpless and the strong

and self-confident! There is no more reason in it than that. He shot

Cynthia Ware, and what she suffered in secret Coniston never guessed.

What parallels in history shall I quote to bring home the enormity of

such a mesalliance? Orthodox Coniston would have gone into sackcloth and

ashes,--was soon to go into these, anyway.

I am not trying to keep the lovers apart for any mere purposes of

fiction,--this is a true chronicle, and they stayed apart most of

that winter. Jethro went about his daily tasks, which were now become

manifold, and he wore the locket on its little chain himself. He did not

think that Cynthia loved him--yet, but he had the effrontery to believe

that she might, some day; and he was content to wait. He saw that she

avoided him, and he was too proud to go to the parsonage and so incur

ridicule and contempt.

Jethro was content to wait. That is a clew to his character throughout

his life. He would wait for his love, he would wait for his hate: he had

waited ten years before putting into practice the first step of a little

scheme which he had been gradually developing during that time, for

which he had been amassing money, and the life of Napoleon Bonaparte, by

the way, had given him some valuable ideas. Jethro, as well as Isaac

D. Worthington, had ambitions, although no one in Coniston had hitherto

guessed them except Jock Hallowell--and Cynthia Ware, after her

curiosity had been aroused.

Even as Isaac D. Worthington did not dream of the Truro Railroad and of

an era in the haze of futurity, it did not occur to Jethro Bass that his

ambitions tended to the making of another era that was at hand. Makers

of eras are too busy thinking about themselves and like immediate

matters to worry about history. Jethro never heard the expression

about “cracks in the Constitution,” and would not have known what it

meant,--he merely had the desire to get on top. But with Established

Church Coniston tight in the saddle (in the person of Moses Hatch,

Senior), how was he to do it?

As the winter wore on, and March town meeting approached, strange rumors

of a Democratic ticket began to drift into Jonah Winch's store,--a

Democratic ticket headed by Fletcher Bartlett, of all men, as chairman

of the board. Moses laughed when he first heard of it, for Fletcher was

an easy-going farmer of the Methodist persuasion who was always in debt,

and the other members of the ticket, so far as Moses could learn of

it--were remarkable neither for orthodoxy or solidity. The rumors

persisted, and still Moses laughed, for the senior selectman was a big

man with flesh on him, who could laugh with dignity.

“Moses,” said Deacon Lysander Richardson as they stood on the platform

of the store one sunny Saturday in February, “somebody's put Fletcher

up to this. He hain't got sense enough to act that independent all by

himself.”

“You be always croakin', Lysander,” answered Moses.

Cynthia Ware, who had come to the store for buttons for Speedy Bates,

who was making a new coat for the minister, heard these remarks, and

stood thoughtfully staring at the blue coat-tails of the elders. A brass

button was gone from Deacon Lysander's, and she wanted to sew it on.

Suddenly she looked up, and saw Jock Hallowell standing beside her. Jock

winked--and Cynthia blushed and hurried homeward without a word. She

remembered, vividly enough, what Jack had told her the spring before,

and several times during the week that followed she thought of waylaying

him and asking what he knew. But she could not summon the courage. As a

matter of fact, Jock knew nothing, but he had a theory. He was a strange

man, Jock, who whistled all day on roof and steeple and meddled with

nobody's business, as a rule. What had impelled him to talk to Cynthia

in the way he had must remain a mystery.

Meanwhile the disquieting rumors continued to come in. Jabez Miller, on

the north slope, had told Samuel Todd, who told Ephraim Williams, that

he was going to vote for Fletcher. Moses Hatch hitched up his team and

went out to see Jabez, spent an hour in general conversation, and then

plumped the question, taking, as he said, that means of finding out.

Jabez hemmed and hawed, said his farm was mortgaged; spoke at some

length about the American citizen, however humble, having a right to

vote as he chose. A most unusual line for Jabez, and the whole matter

very mysterious and not a little ominous. Moses drove homeward that

sparkling day, shutting his eyes to the glare of the ice crystals on

the pines, and thinking profoundly. He made other excursions, enough to

satisfy himself that this disease, so new and unheard of (the right of

the unfit to hold office), actually existed. Where the germ began that

caused it, Moses knew no better than the deacon, since those who were

suspected of leanings toward Fletcher Bartlett were strangely secretive.

The practical result of Moses' profound thought was a meeting, in his

own house, without respect to party, Democrats and Whigs alike, opened

by a prayer from the minister himself. The meeting, after a futile

session, broke up dismally. Sedition and conspiracy existed; a chief

offender and master mind there was, somewhere. But who was he?

Good Mr. Ware went home, troubled in spirit, shaking his head. He had a

cold, and was not so strong as he used to be, and should not have gone

to the meeting at all. At supper, Cynthia listened with her eyes on her

plate while he told her of the affair.

“Somebody's behind this, Cynthia,” he said. “It's the most astonishing

thing in my experience that we cannot discover who has incited them. All

the unattached people in the town seem to have been organized.” Mr.

Ware was wont to speak with moderation even at his own table. He said

unattached--not ungodly.

Cynthia kept her eyes on her plate, but she felt as though her body

were afire. Little did the minister imagine, as he went off to write his

sermon, that his daughter might have given him the clew to the mystery.

Yes, Cynthia guessed; and she could not read that evening because of

the tumult of her thoughts. What was her duty in the matter? To tell

her father her suspicions? They were only suspicions, after all, and she

could make no accusations. And Jethro! Although she condemned him, there

was something in the situation that appealed to a most reprehensible

sense of humor. Cynthia caught herself smiling once or twice, and knew

that it was wicked. She excused Jethro, and told herself that, with his

lack of training, he could know no better. Then an idea came to her, and

the very boldness of it made her grow hot again. She would appeal to him

tell him that that power he had over other men could be put to better

and finer uses. She would appeal to him, and he would abandon the

matter. That the man loved her with the whole of his rude strength she

was sure, and that knowledge had been the only salve to her shame.

So far we have only suspicions ourselves; and, strange to relate, if we

go around Coniston with Jethro behind his little red Morgan, we shall

come back with nothing but--suspicions. They will amount to convictions,

yet we cannot prove them. The reader very naturally demands some

specific information--how did Jethro do it? I confess that I can only

indicate in a very general way: I can prove nothing. Nobody ever could

prove anything against Jethro Bass. Bring the following evidence before

any grand jury in the country, and see if they don't throw it out of

court.

Jethro in the course of his weekly round of strictly business visits

throughout the town, drives into Samuel Todd's farmyard, and hitches

on the sunny side of the red barns. The town of Coniston, it must be

explained for the benefit of those who do not understand the word “town”

in the New England senses was a tract of country about ten miles by ten,

the most thickly settled portion of which was the village of Coniston,

consisting of twelve houses. Jethro drives into the barnyard, and Samuel

Todd comes out. He is a little man, and has a habit of rubbing the sharp

ridge of his nose.

“How be you, Jethro?” says Samuel. “Killed the brindle Thursday. Finest

hide you ever seed.”

“G-goin' to town meetin' Tuesday--g-goin' to town meetin'

Tuesday--Sam'l?” says Jethro.

“I was callatin' to, Jethro.”

“Democrat--hain't ye--Democrat?”

“Callate to be.”

“How much store do ye set by that hide?”

Samuel rubs his nose. Then he names a price that the hide might fetch,

under favorable circumstances, in Boston--Jethro does not wince.

“Who d'ye callate to vote for, Sam'l?”

Samuel rubs his nose.

“Heerd they was a-goin' to put up Fletcher and Amos Cuthbert, an'

Sam Price for Moderator.” (What a convenient word is they when used

politically!) “Hain't made up my mind, clear,” says Samuel.

“C-comin' by the tannery after town meetin'?” inquired Jethro, casually.

“Don't know but what I kin.”

“F-fetch the hide--f-fetch the hide.”

And Jethro drives off, with Samuel looking after him, rubbing his nose.

“No bill,” says the jury--if you can get Samuel into court. But you

can't. Even Moses Hatch can get nothing out of Samuel, who then talks

Jacksonian principles and the nights of an American citizen.

Let us pursue this matter a little farther, and form a committee of

investigation. Where did Mr. Todd learn anything about Jacksonian

principles? From Mr. Samuel Price, whom they have spoken of for

Moderator. And where did Mr. Price learn of these principles? Any one in

Coniston will tell you that Mr. Price makes a specialty of orators and

oratory; and will hold forth at the drop of a hat in Jonah Winch's store

or anywhere else. Who is Mr. Price? He is a tall, sallow young man of

eight and twenty, with a wedge-shaped face, a bachelor and a Methodist,

who farms in a small way on the southern slope, and saves his money. He

has become almost insupportable since they have named him for Moderator.

Get Mr. Sam Price into court. Here is a man who assuredly knows who they

are: if we are, not much mistaken, he is their mouthpiece. Get, an eel

into court. There is only one man in town who can hold an eel, and he

isn't on the jury. Mr. Price will talk plentifully, in his nasal way;

but he won't tell you anything.

Mr. Price has been nominated to fill Deacon Lysander Richardson's shoes

in the following manner: One day in the late autumn a man in a coonskin

cap stops beside Mr. Price's woodpile, where Mr. Price has been chopping

wood, pausing occasionally to stare off through the purple haze at the

south shoulder of Coniston Mountain.

“How be you, Jethro?” says Mr. Price, nasally.

“D-Democrats are talkin' some of namin' you Moderator next meetin',”

says the man in the coonskin cap.

“Want to know!” ejaculates Mr. Price, dropping the axe and straightening

up in amazement. For Mr. Price's ambition soared no higher, and he had

made no secret of it. “Wal! Whar'd you hear that, Jethro?”

“H-heerd it round--some. D-Democrat--hain't you--Democrat?”

“Always callate to be.”

“J-Jacksonian Democrat?”

“Guess I be.”

Silence for a while, that Mr. Price may feel the gavel in his hand,

which he does.

“Know somewhat about Jacksonian principles, don't ye--know somewhat?”

“Callate to,” says Mr. Price, proudly.

“T-talk 'em up, Sam--t-talk 'em up. C-canvass, Sam.”

With these words of brotherly advice Mr. Bass went off down the road,

and Mr. Price chopped no more wood that night; but repeated to himself

many times in his nasal voice, “I want to know!” In the course of the

next few weeks various gentlemen mentioned to Mr. Price that he had been

spoken of for Moderator, and he became acquainted with the names of

the other candidates on the same mysterious ticket who were mentioned.

Whereupon he girded up his loins and went forth and preached the word of

Jacksonian Democracy in all the farmhouses roundabout, with such effect

that Samuel Todd and others were able to talk with some fluency about

the rights of American citizens.

Question before the Committee, undisposed of: Who nominated Samuel Price

for Moderator? Samuel Price gives the evidence, tells the court he does

not know, and is duly cautioned and excused.

Let us call, next, Mr. Eben Williams, if we can. Moses Hatch, Senior,

has already interrogated him with all the authority of the law and the

church, for Mr. Williams is orthodox, though the deacons have to remind

him of his duty once in a while. Eben is timid, and replies to us, as

to Moses, that he has heard of the Democratic ticket, and callates that

Fletcher Bartlett, who has always been the leader of the Democratic

party, has named the ticket. He did not mention Jethro Bass to Deacon

Hatch. Why should he? What has Jethro Bass got to do with politics?

Eben lives on a southern spur, next to Amos Cuthbert, where you can look

off for forty miles across the billowy mountains of the west. From

no spot in Coniston town is the sunset so fine on distant Farewell

Mountain, and Eben's sheep feed on pastures where only mountain-bred

sheep can cling and thrive. Coniston, be it known, at this time is one

of the famous wool towns of New England: before the industry went West,

with other industries. But Eben Williams's sheep do not wholly belong to

him they are mortgaged--and Eben's farm is mortgaged.

Jethro Bass--Eben testifies to us--is in the habit of visiting him once

a month, perhaps, when he goes to Amos Cuthbert's. Just friendly calls.

Is it not a fact that Jethro Bass holds his mortgage? Yes, for eight

hundred dollars. How long has he held that mortgage? About a year and a

half. Has the interest been paid promptly? Well, the fact is that Eben

hasn't paid any interest yet.

Now let us take the concrete incident. Before that hypocritical thaw

early in February, Jethro called upon Amos Cuthbert--not so surly then

as he has since become--and talked about buying his wool when it should

be duly cut, and permitted Amos to talk about the position of second

selectman, for which some person or persons unknown to the jury had

nominated him. On his way down to the Four Corners, Jethro had merely

pulled up his sleigh before Eben Williams's house, which stood behind a

huge snow bank and practically on the road. Eben appeared at the door, a

little dishevelled in hair and beard, for he had been sleeping.

“How be you, Jethro?” he said nervously. Jethro nodded.

“Weather looks a mite soft.”

No answer.

“About that interest,” said Eben, plunging into the dread subject,

“don't know as I'm ready this month after all.”

“G-goin' to town meetin', Eben?”

“Wahn't callatin' to,” answered Eben.

“G-goin' to town meetin', Eben?”

Eben, puzzled and dismayed, ran his hand through his hair.

“Wahn't callatin' to--but I kin--I kin.”

“D-Democrat--hain't ye--D-Democrat?”

“I kin be,” said Eben. Then he looked at Jethro and added in a startled

voice, “Don't know but what I be--Yes, I guess I be.”

“H-heerd the ticket?”

Yes, Eben had heard the ticket. What man had not. Some one has been most

industrious, and most disinterested, in distributing that ticket.

“Hain't a mite of hurry about the interest right now--right now,” said

Jethro. “M-may be along the third week in March--may be--c-can t tell.”

And Jethro clucked to his horse, and drove away. Eben Williams went back

into his house and sat down with his head in his hands. In about two

hours, when his wife called him to fetch water, he set down the pail

on the snow and stared across the next ridge at the eastern horizon,

whitening after the sunset.

The third week in March was the week after town meeting!

“M-may be--c-can't tell,” repeated Eben to himself, unconsciously

imitating Jethro's stutter. “Godfrey, I'll hev to git that ticket

straight from Amos.”

Yes, we may have our suspicions. But how can we get a bill on this

evidence? There are some thirty other individuals in Coniston whose

mortgages Jethro holds, from a horse to a house and farm. It is not

likely that they will tell Beacon Hatch, or us; that they are going to

town meeting and vote for that fatherless ticket because Jethro Bass

wishes them to do so. And Jethro has never said that he wishes them

to. If so, where are your witnesses? Have we not come back to our

starting-point, even as Moses Hatch drove around in a circle.. And we

have the advantage over Moses, for we suspect somebody, and he did not

know whom to suspect. Certainly not Jethro Bass, the man that lived

under his nose and never said anything--and had no right to. Jethro

Bass had never taken any active part in politics, though some folks had

heard, in his rounds on business, that he had discussed them, and had

spread the news of the infamous ticket without a parent. So much was

spoken of at the meeting over which Priest Ware prayed. It was even

declared that, being a Democrat, Jethro might have influenced some of

those under obligations to him. Sam Price was at last fixed upon as the

malefactor, though people agreed that they had not given him credit for

so much sense, and Jacksonian principles became as much abhorred by the

orthodox as the spotted fever.

We can call a host of other witnesses if we like, among them cranky,

happy-go-lucky Fletcher Bartlett, who has led forlorn hopes in former

years. Court proceedings make tiresome reading, and if those who

have been over ours have not arrived at some notion of the simple and

innocent method of the new Era of politics note dawning--they never

will. Nothing proved. But here is part of the ticket which nobody

started:--

For

SENIOR SELECTMAN, FLETCHER BARTLETT.

(Farm and buildings on Thousand Acre Hill mortgaged to Jethro

Bass.)

SECOND SELECTMAN, AMOS CUTHBERT.

(Farm and buildings on Town's End Ridge mortgaged to Jethro

Bass.)

THIRD SELECTMAN, CHESTER PERKINS.

(Sop of some kind to the Established Church party. Horse and

cow mortgaged to Jethro Bass, though his father, the tithing-man,

doesn't know it.)

MODERATOR, SAMUEL PRICE.

(Natural ambition--dove of oratory and Jacksonian principles.)

etc., etc.

The notes are mine, not Moses's. Strange that they didn't occur to

Moses. What a wealthy man has our hero become at thirty-one! Jethro Bass

was rich beyond the dreams of avarice--for Coniston. Truth compels me

to admit that the sum total of all his mortgages did not amount to nine

thousand “dollars”; but that was a large sum of money for Coniston in

those days, and even now. Nathan Bass had been a saving man, and had

left to his son one-half of this fortune. If thrift and the ability to

gain wealth be qualities for a hero, Jethro had them--in those days.

The Sunday before March meeting, it blew bitter cold, and Priest Ware,

preaching in mittens, denounced sedition in general. Underneath him,

on the first landing of the high pulpit, the deacons sat with knitted

brows, and the key-note from Isaiah Prescott's pitch pipe sounded like

mournful echo of the mournful wind without.

Monday was ushered in with that sleet storm to which the almanacs still

refer, and another scarcely less important event occurred that day which

we shall have to pass by for the present; on Tuesday, the sleet still

raging, came the historic town meeting. Deacon Moses Hatch, his chores

done and his breakfast and prayers completed, fought his way with his

head down through a white waste to the meeting-house door, and unlocked

it, and shivered as he made the fire. It was certainly not good election

weather, thought Moses, and others of the orthodox persuasion, high in

office, were of the same opinion as they stood with parted coat tails

before the stove. Whoever had stirred up and organized the hordes,

whoever was the author of that ticket of the discontented, had not

counted upon the sleet. Heaven-sent sleet, said Deacon Ira Perkins, and

would not speak to his son Chester, who sat down just then in one of the

rear slips. Chester had become an agitator, a Jacksonian Democrat, and

an outcast, to be prayed for but not spoken to.

We shall leave them their peace of mind for half an hour more,

those stanch old deacons and selectmen, who did their duty by their

fellow-citizens as they saw it and took no man's bidding. They could not

see the trackless roads over the hills, now becoming tracked, and the

bent figures driving doggedly against the storm, each impelled by a

motive: each motive strengthened by a master mind until it had become

imperative. Some, like Eben Williams behind his rickety horse, came

through fear; others through ambition; others were actuated by both;

and still others were stung by the pain of the sleet to a still greater

jealousy and envy, and the remembrance of those who had been in power. I

must not omit the conscientious Jacksonians who were misguided enough to

believe in such a ticket.

The sheds were not large enough to hold the teams that day. Jethro's

barn and tannery were full, and many other barns in the village. And

now the peace of mind of the orthodox is a thing of the past. Deacon

Lysander Richardson, the moderator, sits aghast in his high place as

they come trooping in, men who have not been to town meeting for ten

years. Deacon Lysander, with his white band of whiskers that goes around

his neck like a sixteenth-century ruff under his chin, will soon be a

memory. Now enters one, if Deacon Lysander had known it symbolic of the

new Era. One who, though his large head is bent, towers over most of

the men who make way for him in the aisle, nodding but not speaking,

and takes his place in the chair under the platform on the right of the

meeting-pause under one of the high, three-part windows. That chair

was always his in future years, and there he sat afterward, silent,

apparently taking no part. But not a man dropped a ballot into the box

whom Jethro Bass did not see and mark.

And now, when the meeting-house is crowded as it has never been before,

when Jonah Winch has arranged his dinner booth in the corner, Deacon

Lysander raps for order and the minister prays. They proceed, first,

to elect a representative to the General Court. The Jacksonians do not

contest that seat,--this year,--and Isaiah Prescott, fourteenth child

of Timothy, the Stark hero, father of a young Ephraim whom we shall hear

from later, is elected. And now! Now for a sensation, now for disorder

and misrule!

“Gentlemen,” says Deacon Lysander, “you will prepare your ballots for

the choice of the first Selectman.”

The Whigs have theirs written out, Deacon Moses Hatch. But who has

written out these others that are being so assiduously passed around?

Sam Price, perhaps, for he is passing them most assiduously. And what

name is written on them? Fletcher Bartlett, of course; that was on the

ticket. Somebody is tricked again. That is not the name on the ticket.

Look over Sara Price's shoulder and you will see the name--Jethro Bass.

It bursts from the lips of Fletcher Bartlett himself--of Fletcher,

inflammable as gunpowder.

“Gentlemen, I withdraw as your candidate, and nominate a better and an

abler man,--Jethro Bass.”

“Jethro Bass for Chairman of the Selectmen!”

The cry is taken up all over the meeting-house, and rises high above the

hiss of the sleet on the great windows. Somebody's got on the stove, to

add to the confusion and horror. The only man in the whole place who is

not excited is Jethro Bass himself, who sits in his chair regardless of

those pressing around him. Many years afterward he confessed to some one

that he was surprised--and this is true. Fletcher Bartlett had surprised

and tricked him, but was forgiven. Forty men are howling at the

moderator, who is pounding on the table with a blacksmith's blows.

Squire Asa Northcutt, with his arms fanning like a windmill from the

edge of the platform, at length shouts down everybody else--down to a

hum. Some listen to him: hear the words “infamous outrage”--“if Jethro

Bass is elected Selectman, Coniston will never be able to hold up her

head among her sister towns for very shame.” (Momentary blank, for

somebody has got on the stove again, a scuffle going on there.) “I see

it all now,” says the Squire--(marvel of perspicacity!) “Jethro Bass has

debased and debauched this town--” (blank again, and the squire points

a finger of rage and scorn at the unmoved offender in the chair) “he

has bought and intimidated men to do his bidding. He has sinned against

heaven, and against the spirit of that most immortal of documents--”

(Blank again. Most unfortunate blank, for this is becoming oratory, but

somebody from below has seized the squire by the leg.) Squire Northcutt

is too dignified and elderly a person to descend to rough and tumble,

but he did get his leg liberated and kicked Fletcher Bartlett in the

face. Oh, Coniston, that such scenes should take place in your town

meeting! By this time another is orating, Mr. Sam Price, Jackson

Democrat. There was no shorthand reporter in Coniston in those days,

and it is just as well, perhaps, that the accusations and recriminations

should sink into oblivion.

At last, by mighty efforts of the peace loving in both parties,

something like order is restored, the ballots are in the box, and Deacon

Lysander is counting them: not like another moderator I have heard of,

who spilled the votes on the floor until his own man was elected.

No. Had they registered his own death sentence, the deacon would have

counted them straight, and needed no town clerk to verify his

figures. But when he came to pronounce the vote, shame and sorrow and

mortification overcame him. Coniston, his native town, which he had

served and revered, was dishonored, and it was for him, Lysander

Richardson, to proclaim her disgrace. The deacon choked, and tears of

bitterness stood in his eyes, and there came a silence only broken by

the surging of the sleet as he rapped on the table.

“Seventy-five votes have been cast for Jethro Bass--sixty-three for

Moses Hatch. Necessary for a choice, seventy--and Jethro Bass is elected

senior Selectman.”

The deacon sat down, and men say that a great sob shook him, while

Jacksonian Democracy went wild--not looking into future years to see

what they were going wild about. Jethro Bass Chairman of the Board of

Selectmen, in the honored place of Deacon Moses Hatch! Bourbon royalists

never looked with greater abhorrence on the Corsican adventurer and

usurper of the throne than did the orthodox in Coniston on this tanner,

who had earned no right to aspire to any distinction, and who by his

wiles had acquired the highest office in the town government. Fletcher

Bartlett in, as a leader of the irresponsible opposition, would have

been calamity enough. But Jethro Bass!

This man whom they had despised was the master mind who had organized

and marshalled the loose vote, was the author of that ticket, who sat in

his corner unmoved alike by the congratulations of his friends and the

maledictions of his enemies; who rose to take his oath of office as

unconcerned as though the house were empty, albeit Deacon Lysander

could scarcely get the words out. And then Jethro sat down again in his

chair--not to leave it for six and thirty years. From this time forth

that chair became a seat of power, and of dominion over a state.

Thus it was that Jock Hallowell's prophecy, so lightly uttered, came to

pass.

How the remainder of that Jacksonian ticket was elected, down to the

very hog-reeves, and amid what turmoil of the Democracy and bitterness

of spirit of the orthodox, I need not recount. There is no moral to

the story, alas--it was one of those things which inscrutable heaven

permitted to be done. After that dark town-meeting day some of those

stern old fathers became broken men, and it is said in Coniston that

this calamity to righteous government, and not the storm, gave to Priest

Ware his death-stroke.

CHAPTER VI

And now we must go back for a chapter--a very short chapter--to the day

before that town meeting which had so momentous an influence upon the

history of Coniston and of the state. That Monday, too, it will be

remembered, dawned in storm, the sleet hissing in the wide throats of

the centre-chimneys, and bearing down great boughs of trees until they

broke in agony. Dusk came early, and howling darkness that hid a muffled

figure on the ice-bound road staring at the yellow cracks in the tannery

door. Presently the figure crossed the yard; the door, flying open,

released a shaft of light that shot across the white ground, revealed a

face beneath a hood to him who stood within.

“Jethro!”

She darted swiftly past him, seizing the door and drawing it closed

after her. A lantern hung on the central post and flung its rays upon

his face. Her own, mercifully, was in the shadow, and burning now with

a shame that was insupportable. Now that she was there, beside him, her

strength failed her, and her courage--courage that she had been storing

for this dread undertaking throughout the whole of that dreadful day.

Now that she was there, she would have given her life to have been able

to retrace her steps, to lose herself in the wild, dark places of the

mountain.

“Cynthy!” His voice betrayed the passion which her presence had

quickened.

The words she would have spoken would not come. She could think of

nothing but that she was alone with him, and in bodily terror of him.

She turned to the door again, to grasp the wooden latch; but he barred

the way, and she fell back.

“Let me go,” she cried. “I did not mean to come. Do you hear?--let me

go!”

To her amazement he stepped aside--a most unaccountable action for him.

More unaccountable still, she did not move, now that she was free, but

stood poised for flight, held by she knew not what.

“G-go if you've a mind to, Cynthy--if you've a mind to.”

“I've come to say something to you,” she faltered. It was not, at all

the way she had pictured herself as saying it.

“H-haven't took' Moses--have you?”

“Oh,” she cried, “do you think I came here to speak of such a thing as

that?”

“H-haven't took--Moses, have you?”

She was trembling, and yet she could almost have smiled at this

well-remembered trick of pertinacity.

“No,” she said, and immediately hated herself for answering him.

“H-haven't took that Worthington cuss?”

He was jealous!

“I didn't come to discuss Mr. Worthington,” she replied.

“Folks say it's only a matter of time,” said he. “Made up your mind to

take him, Cynthy? M-made up your mind?”

“You've no right to talk to me in this way,” she said, and added, the

words seeming to slip of themselves from her lips, “Why do you do it?”

“Because I'm--interested,” he said.

“You haven't shown it,” she flashed back, forgetting the place, and the

storm, and her errand even, forgetting that Jake Wheeler, or any one in

Coniston, might come and surprise her there.

He took a step toward her, and she retreated. The light struck her face,

and he bent over her as though searching it for a sign. The cape on her

shoulders rose and fell as she breathed.

“'Twahn't charity, Cynthy--was it? 'Twahn't charity?”

“It was you who called it such,” she answered, in a low voice.

A sleet-charged gust hurled itself against the door, and the lantern

flickered.

“Wahn't it charity.”

“It was friendship, Jethro. You ought to have known that, and you should

not have brought back the book.”

“Friendship,” he repeated, “y-you said friendship?”

“Yes.”

“M-meant friendship?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, but more faintly, and yet with a certain delicious

fright as she glanced at him shyly. Surely there had never been a

stranger man! Now he was apparently in a revery.

“G-guess it's because I'm not good enough to be anything more,” he

remarked suddenly. “Is that it?”

“You have not tried even to be a friend,” she said.

“H-how about Worthington?” he persisted. “Just friends with him?”

“I won't talk about Mr. Worthington,” cried Cynthia, desperately, and

retreated toward the lantern again.

“J-just friends with Worthington?”

“Why?” she asked, her words barely heard above the gust, “why do you

want to know?”

He came after her. It was as if she had summoned some unseen,

uncontrollable power, only to be appalled by it, and the mountain-storm

without seemed the symbol of it. His very voice seemed to partake of its

strength.

“Cynthy,” he said, “if you'd took him, I'd have killed him. Cynthy, I

love you--I want you to be my woman--”

“Your woman!”

He caught her, struggling wildly, terror-stricken, in his arms, beat

down her hands, flung back her hood, and kissed her forehead--her hair,

blown by the wind--her lips. In that moment she felt the mystery of

heaven and hell, of all kinds of power. In that moment she was like a

seed flying in the storm above the mountain spruces whither, she knew

not, cared not. There was one thought that drifted across the chaos like

a blue light of the spirit: Could she control the storm? Could she say

whither the winds might blow, where the seed might be planted? Then

she found herself listening, struggling no longer, for he held her

powerless. Strangest of all, most hopeful of all, his own mind was

working, though his soul rocked with passion.

“Cynthy--ever since we stopped that day on the road in Northcutt's

woods, I've thought of nothin' but to marry you--m-marry you. Then you

give me that book--I hain't had much education, but it come across me

if you was to help me that way--And when I seed you with Worthington, I

could have killed him easy as breakin' bark.”

“Hush, Jethro.”

She struggled free and leaped away from him, panting, while he tore open

his coat and drew forth something which gleamed in the lantern's rays--a

silver locket. Cynthia scarcely saw it. Her blood was throbbing in her

temples, she could not reason, but she knew that the appeal for the sake

of which she had stooped must be delivered now.

“Jethro,” she said, “do you know why I came here--why I came to you?”

“No,” he said. “No. W--wanted me, didn't you? Wanted me--I wanted you,

Cynthy.”

“I would never have come to you for that,” she cried, “never!”

“L-love me, Cynthy--love me, don't you?”

How could he ask, seeing that she had been in his arms, and had not

fled? And yet she must go through with what she had come to do, at any

cost.

“Jethro, I have come to speak to you about the town meeting tomorrow.”

He halted as though he had been struck, his hand tightening over the

locket.

“T-town meetin'?”

“Yes. All this new organization is your doing,” she cried. “Do you think

that I am foolish enough to believe that Fletcher Bartlett or Sam Price

planned this thing? No, Jethro. I know who has done it, and I could have

told them if they had asked me.”

He looked at her, and the light of a new admiration was in his eye.

“Knowed it--did you?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little defiantly, “I did.”

“H-how'd you know it--how'd you know it, Cynthy?” How did she know it,

indeed?

“I guessed it,” said Cynthia, desperately, “knowing you, I guessed it.”

“A-always thought you was smart, Cynthy.”

“Tell me, did you do this thing?”

“Th-thought you knowed it--th-thought you knowed.”

“I believe that these men are doing your bidding.”

“Hain't you guessin' a little mite too much; Cynthy?”

“Jethro,” she said, “you told me just now that--that you loved me. Don't

touch me!” she cried, when he would have taken her in his arms again.

“If you love me, you will tell me why you have done such a thing.”

What instinct there was in the man which forbade him speaking out to

her, I know not. I do believe that he would have confessed, if he could.

Isaac Worthington had been impelled to reveal his plans and aspirations,

but Jethro Bass was as powerless in this supreme moment of his life as

was Coniston Mountain to move the granite on which it stood. Cynthia's

heart sank, and a note of passionate appeal came into her voice.

“Oh, Jethro!” she cried, “this is not the way to use your power, to

compel men like Eben Williams and Samuel Todd and--and Lyman Hull, who

is a drunkard and a vagabond, to come in and vote for those who are not

fit to hold office.” She was using the minister's own arguments. “We

have always had clean men, and honorable and good men.”

He did not speak, but dropped his hands to his sides. His thoughts

were not to be fathomed, yet Cynthia took the movement for silent

confession,--which it was not, and stood appalled at the very magnitude

of his accomplishment, astonished at the secrecy he had maintained. She

had heard that his name had been mentioned in the meeting at the house

of Moses Hatch as having taken part in the matter, and she guessed

something of certain of his methods. But she had felt his force, and

knew that this was not the only secret of his power.

What might he not aspire to, if properly guided? No, she did not believe

him to be, unscrupulous--but merely ignorant: a man who was capable of

such love as she felt was in him, a man whom she could love, could not

mean to be unscrupulous. Defence of him leaped to her own lips.

“You did not know what you were doing,” she said. “I was sure of it,

or I would not have come to you. Oh, Jethro! you must stop it--you must

prevent this election.”

Her eyes met his, her own pleading, and the very wind without seemed to

pause for his answer. But what she asked was impossible. That wind

which he himself had loosed, which was to topple over institutions, was

rising, and he could no more have stopped it then than he could have

hushed the storm.

“You will not do what I ask--now?” she said, very slowly. Then her voice

failed her, she drew her hands together, and it was as if her heart had

ceased to beat. Sorrow and anger and fierce shame overwhelmed her, and

she turned from him in silence and went to the door.

“Cynthy,” he cried hoarsely, “Cynthy!”

“You must never speak to me again,” she said, and was gone into the

storm.

Yes, she had failed. But she did not know that she had left something

behind which he treasured as long as he lived.

In the spring, when the new leaves were green on the slopes of Coniston,

Priest Ware ended a life of faithful service. The high pulpit, taken

from the old meeting house, and the cricket on which he used to stand

and the Bible from which he used to preach have remained objects of

veneration in Coniston to this day. A fortnight later many tearful faces

gazed after the Truro coach as it galloped out of Brampton in a cloud

of dust, and one there was watching unseen from the spruces on the hill,

who saw within it a girl dressed in black, dry-eyed, staring from the

window.

CHAPTER VII

Out of the stump of a blasted tree in the Coniston woods a flower will

sometimes grow, and even so the story which I have now to tell springs

from the love of Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass. The flower, when it came

to bloom, was fair in life, and I hope that in these pages it will not

lose too much of its beauty and sweetness.

For a little while we are going to gallop through the years as before we

have ambled through the days, although the reader's breath may be

taken away in the process. How Cynthia Ware went over the Truro Pass to

Boston, and how she became a teacher in a high school there;--largely

through the kindness of that Miss Lucretia Penniman of whom we have

spoken, who wrote in Cynthia's behalf to certain friends she had in

that city; how she met one William Wetherell, no longer a clerk in

Mr. Judson's jewellery shop, but a newspaper man with I know not what

ambitions--and limitations in strength of body and will; how, many, many

years afterward, she nursed him tenderly through a sickness and--married

him, is all told in a paragraph. Marry him she did, to take care of him,

and told him so. She made no secret of the maternal in this love.

One evening, the summer after their marriage, they were walking in the

Mall under the great elms that border the Common on the Tremont Street

side. They often used to wander there, talking of the books he was to

write when strength should come and a little leisure, and sometimes

their glances would linger longingly on Colonnade Row that Bulfinch

built across the way, where dwelt the rich and powerful of the city--and

yet he would not have exchanged their lot for his. Could he have earned

with his own hands such a house, and sit Cynthia there in glory, what

happiness! But, I stray.

They were walking in the twilight, for the sun had sunk all red in the

marshes of the Charles, when there chanced along a certain Mr. Judson,

a jeweller, taking the air likewise. So there came into Wetherell's mind

that amusing adventure with the country lad and the locket. His name,

by reason of some strange quality in it, he had never forgotten, and

suddenly he recalled that the place the countryman had come from was

Coniston.

“Cynthia,” said her husband, when Mr. Judson was gone, “did you know any

one in Coniston named Jethro Bass?”

She did not answer him. And, thinking she had not heard, he spoke again.

“Why do you ask?” she said, in a low tone, without looking at him.

He told her the story. Not until the end of it did the significance of

the name engraved come to him--Cynthy.

“Cynthy, from Jethro.”

“Why, it might have been you!” he said jestingly. “Was he an admirer of

yours, Cynthia, that strange, uncouth countryman? Did he give you the

locket?”

“No,” she answered, “he never did.”

Wetherell glanced at her in surprise, and saw that her lip was

quivering, that tears were on her lashes. She laid her hand on his arm.

“William,” she said, drawing him to a bench, “come, let us sit down, and

I will tell you the story of Jethro Bass. We have been happy together,

you and I, for I have found peace with you. I have tried to be honest

with you, William, and I will always be so. I told you before we were

married that I loved another man. I have tried to forget him, but as God

is my judge, I cannot. I believe I shall love him until I die.”

They sat in the summer twilight, until darkness fell, and the lights

gleamed through the leaves, and a deep, cool breath coming up from the

sea stirred the leaves above their heads. That she should have loved

Jethro seemed as strange to her as to him, and yet Wetherell was to feel

the irresistible force of him. Hers was not a love that she chose, or

would have chosen, but something elemental that cried out from the man

to her, and drew her. Something that had in it now, as of yore, much of

pain and even terror, but drew her. Strangest of all was that William

Wetherell understood and was not jealous of this thing: which leads

us to believe that some essence of virility was lacking in him, some

substance that makes the fighters and conquerors in this world. In such

mood he listened to the story of Jethro Bass.

“My dear husband,” said Cynthia, when she had finished, her hand

tightening over his, “I have never told you this for fear that it might

trouble you as it has troubled me. I have found in your love sanctuary;

and all that remains of myself I have given to you.”

“You have found a weakling to protect, and an invalid to nurse,” he

answered. “To have your compassion, Cynthia, is all I crave.”

So they lived through the happiest and swiftest years of his life,

working side by side, sharing this strange secret between them. And

after that night Cynthia talked to him often of Coniston, until he

came to know the mountain that lay along the western sky, and the sweet

hillsides by Coniston Water under the blue haze of autumn, aye, and

clothed in the colors of spring, the bright blossoms of thorn and apple

against the tender green of the woods and fields. So he grew to love the

simple people there, but little did he foresee that he was to end his

life among them!

But so it came to pass, she was taken from him, who had been the one joy

and inspiration of his weary days, and he was driven, wandering, into

unfrequented streets that he might not recall, the places where she had

once trod, and through the wakeful nights her voice haunted him,--its

laughter, its sweet notes of seriousness; little ways and manners of her

look came to twist his heart, and he prayed God to take him, too, until

it seemed that Cynthia frowned upon him for his weakness. One mild

Sunday afternoon, he took little Cynthia by the hand and led her,

toddling, out into the sunny Common, where he used to walk with her

mother, and the infant prattle seemed to bring--at last a strange peace

to his storm-tossed soul.

For many years these Sunday walks in the Common were Wetherell's

greatest pleasure and solace, and it seemed as though little Cynthia had

come into the world with an instinct, as it were, of her mission that

lent to her infant words a sweet gravity and weight. Many people used to

stop and speak to the child, among them a great physician whom they grew

to know. He was, there every Sunday, and at length it came to be a habit

with him to sit down on the bench and take Cynthia on his knee, and his

stern face would soften as he talked to her.

One Sunday when Cynthia was eight years old he missed them, and the

next, and at dusk he strode into their little lodging behind the hill

and up to the bedside. He glanced at Wetherell, patting Cynthia on the

head the while, and bade her cheerily to go out of the room. But

she held tight hold of her father's hand and looked up at the doctor

bravely.

“I am taking care of my father,” she said.

“So you shall, little woman,” he answered. “I would that we had such

nurses as you at the hospital. Why didn't you send for me at once?”

“I wanted to,” said Cynthia.

“Bless her good sense;” said the doctor; “she has more than you,

Wetherell. Why didn't you take her advice? If your father does not do

as I tell him, he will be a very sick man indeed. He must go into the

country and stay there.”

“But I must live, Doctor,” said William Wetherell.

The doctor looked at Cynthia.

“You will not live if you stay here,” he replied.

“Then he will go,” said Cynthia, so quietly that he gave her another

look, strange and tender and comprehending. He, sat and talked of many

things: of the great war that was agonizing the nation; of the strong

man who, harassed and suffering himself, was striving to guide it,

likening Lincoln unto a physician. So the doctor was wont to take the

minds of patients from themselves. And before he left he gave poor

Wetherell a fortnight to decide.

As he lay on his back in that room among the chimney tops trying vainly

to solve the problem of how he was to earn his salt in the country, a

visitor was climbing the last steep flight of stairs. That visitor

was none other than Sergeant Ephraim Prescott, son of Isaiah of the

pitch-pipe, and own cousin of Cynthia Ware's. Sergeant Ephraim was just

home from the war and still clad in blue, and he walked with a slight

limp by reason of a bullet he had got in the Wilderness, and he had such

an honest, genial face that little Cynthia was on his knee in a moment.

“How be you, Will? Kind of poorly, I callate. So Cynthy's b'en took,” he

said sadly. “Always thought a sight of Cynthy. Little Cynthy favors her

some. Yes, thought I'd drop in and see how you be on my way home.”

Sergeant Ephraim had much to say about the great war, and about

Coniston. True to the instincts of the blood of the Stark hero, he had

left the plough and the furrow' at the first call, forty years of age

though he was. But it had been otherwise with many in Coniston and

Brampton and Harwich. Some of these, when the drafting came, had fled in

bands to the mountain and defied capture. Mr. Dudley Worthington, now

a mill owner, had found a substitute; Heth Sutton of Clovelly had been

drafted and had driven over the mountain to implore Jethro Bass abjectly

to get him out of it. In short, many funny things had happened--funny

things to Sergeant Ephraim, but not at all to William Wetherell, who

sympathized with Heth in his panic.

“So Jethro Bass has become a great man,” said Wetherell.

“Great!” Ephraim ejaculated. “Guess he's the biggest man in the state

to-day. Queer how he got his power began twenty-four years ago when

I wahn't but twenty. I call that town meetin' to mind as if 'twas

yesterday never was such an upset. Jethro's be'n first Selectman

ever sense, though he turned Republican in '60. Old folks don't fancy

Jethro's kind of politics much, but times change. Jethro saved my life,

I guess.”

“Saved your life!” exclaimed Wetherell.

“Got me a furlough,” said Ephraim. “Guess I would have died in the

hospital if he hadn't got it so all-fired quick, and he druv down to

Brampton to fetch me back. You'd have thought I was General Grant the

way folks treated me.”

“You went back to the war after your leg healed?” Wetherell asked, in

wondering admiration of the man's courage.

“Well,” said Ephraim, simply, “the other boys was gettin' full of

bullets and dysentery, and it didn't seem just right. The leg troubles

me some on wet days, but not to amount to much. You hain't thinkin' of

dyin' yourself, be ye, William?”

William was thinking very seriously of it, but it was Cynthia who spoke,

and startled them both.

“The doctor says he will die if he doesn't go to the country.”

“Somethin' like consumption, William?” asked Ephraim.

“So the doctor said.”

“So I callated,” said Ephraim. “Come back to Coniston with me; there

hain't a healthier place in New England.”

“How could I support myself in Coniston?” Wetherell asked.

Ephraim ruminated. Suddenly he stuck his hand into the bosom of his blue

coat, and his face lighted and even gushed as he drew out a crumpled

letter.

“It don't take much gumption to run a store, does it, William? Guess you

could run a store, couldn't you?”

“I would try anything,” said Wetherell.

“Well,” said Ephraim' “there's the store at Coniston. With folks goin'

West, and all that, nobody seems to want it much.” He looked at the

letter. “Lem Hallowell' says there hain't nobody to take it.”

“Jonah Winch's!” exclaimed Wetherell.

“Jonah made it go, but that was before all this hullabaloo about

Temperance Cadets and what not. Jonah sold good rum, but now you can't

get nothin' in Coniston but hard cider and potato whiskey. Still, it's

the place for somebody without much get-up,” and he eyed his cousin by

marriage. “Better come and try it, William.”

So much for dreams! Instead of a successor to Irving and Emerson,

William Wetherell became a successor to Jonah Winch.

That journey to Coniston was full of wonder to Cynthia, and of wonder

and sadness to Wetherell, for it was the way his other Cynthia had come

to Boston. From the state capital the railroad followed the same deep

valley as the old coach road, but ended at Truro, and then they took

stage over Truro Pass for Brampton, where honest Ephraim awaited them

and their slender luggage with a team. Brampton, with its wide-shadowed

green, and terrace-steepled church; home once of the Social Library and

Lucretia Penniman, now famous; home now of Isaac Dudley Worthington,

whose great mills the stage driver had pointed out to them on Coniston

Water as they entered the town.

Then came a drive through the cool evening to Coniston, Ephraim showing

them landmarks. There was Deacon Lysander's house, where little Rias

Richardson lived now; and on that slope and hidden in its forest nook,

among the birches and briers, the little schoolhouse where Cynthia had

learned to spell; here, where the road made an aisle in the woods, she

had met Jethro. The choir of the birds was singing an evening anthem now

as then, to the lower notes of Coniston Water, and the moist, hothouse

fragrance of the ferns rose from the deep places.

At last they came suddenly upon the little hamlet of Coniston itself.

There was the flagpole and the triangular green, scene of many a muster;

Jonah Winch's store, with its horse block and checker-paned

windows, just as Jonah had left it; Nathan Bass's tannery shed, now

weather-stained and neglected, for Jethro lived on Thousand Acre Hill

now; the Prescott house, home of the Stark hero, where Ephraim lived,

“innocent of paint” (as one of Coniston's sons has put it), “innocent

of paint as a Coniston maiden's face”; the white meeting-house, where

Priest Ware had preached--and the parsonage. Cynthia and Wetherell

loitered in front of it, while the blue shadow of the mountain deepened

into night, until Mr. Satterlee, the minister, found them there, and

they went in and stood reverently in the little chamber on the right of

the door, which had been Cynthia's.

Long Wetherell lay awake that night, in his room at the gable-end

over the store, listening to the rustling of the great oak beside the

windows, to the whippoorwills calling across Coniston Water. But at last

a peace descended upon him, and he slept: yes, and awoke with the

same sense of peace at little Cynthia's touch, to go out into the cool

morning, when the mountain side was in myriad sheens of green under the

rising sun. Behind the store was an old-fashioned garden, set about by

a neat stone wall, hidden here and there by the masses of lilac and

currant bushes, and at the south of it was a great rose-covered boulder

of granite. And beyond, through the foliage of the willows and the low

apple trees which Jonah Winch had set out, Coniston Water gleamed and

tumbled. Under an arching elm near the house was the well, stone-rimmed,

with its long pole and crotch, and bucket all green with the damp moss

which clung to it.

Ephraim Prescott had been right when he had declared that it did not

take much gumption to keep store in Coniston. William Wetherell merely

assumed certain obligations at the Brampton bank, and Lem Hallowell,

Jock's son, who now drove the Brampton stage, brought the goods to the

door. Little Rias Richardson was willing to come in, and help move the

barrels, and on such occasions wore carpet slippers to save his shoes.

William still had time for his books; in that Coniston air he began to

feel stronger, and to wonder whether he might not be a Washington Irving

yet. And yet he had one worry and one fear, and both of these concerned

one man,--Jethro Bass. Him, by her own confession, Cynthia Ware

had loved to her dying day, hating herself for it: and he, William

Wetherell, had married this woman whom Jethro had loved so violently,

and must always love--so Wetherell thought: that was the worry. How

would Jethro treat him? that was the fear. William Wetherell was not the

most courageous man in the world.

Jethro Bass had not been in Coniston since William's arrival. No need

to ask where he was. Jake Wheeler, Jethro's lieutenant in Coniston, gave

William a glowing account of that Throne Room in the Pelican Hotel at

the capital, from whence Jethro ruled the state during the sessions of

the General Court. This legislature sat to him as a sort of advisory

committee of three hundred and fifty: an expensive advisory committee to

the people, relic of an obsolete form of government. Many stories of the

now all-powerful Jethro William heard from the little coterie which made

their headquarters in his store--stories of how those methods of which

we have read were gradually spread over other towns and other counties.

Not that Jethro held mortgages in these towns and counties, but the

local lieutenants did, and bowed to him as an overlord. There were funny

stories, and grim stories of vengeance which William Wetherell heard and

trembled at. Might not Jethro wish to take vengeance upon him?

One story he did not hear, because no one in Coniston knew it. No one

knew that Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass had ever loved each other.

At last, toward the end of June, it was noised about that the great

man was coming home for a few days. One beautiful afternoon William

Wetherell stood on the platform of the store, looking off at Coniston,

talking to Moses Hatch--young Moses, who is father of six children now

and has forgotten Cynthia Ware. Old Moses sleeps on the hillside, let

us hope in the peace of the orthodox and the righteous. A cloud of dust

arose above the road to the southward, and out of it came a country

wagon drawn by a fat horse, and in the wagon the strangest couple

Wetherell had ever seen. The little woman who sat retiringly at one end

of the seat was all in brilliant colors from bonnet to flounce, like

a paroquet, red and green predominating. The man, big in build,

large-headed, wore an old-fashioned blue swallow-tailed coat with

brass buttons, a stock, and coonskin hat, though it was summer, and

the thumping of William Wetherell's heart told him that this was Jethro

Bass. He nodded briefly at Moses Hatch, who greeted him with genial

obsequiousness.

“Legislatur' through?” shouted Moses.

The great man shook his head and drove on.

“Has Jethro Bass ever been a member of the Legislature?” asked the

storekeeper, for the sake of something to say.

“Never would take any office but Chairman of the Selectmen,” answered

Moses, who apparently bore no ill will for his father's sake. “Jethro

kind of fathers the Legislatur', I guess, though I don't take much stock

in politics. Goes down sessions to see that they don't get too gumptious

and kick off the swaddlin' clothes.”

“And--was that his wife?” Wetherell asked, hesitatingly.

“Aunt Listy, they call her. Nobody ever knew how he come to marry her.

Jethro went up to Wisdom once, in the centre of the state, and come back

with her. Funny place to bring a wife from--Wisdom! Funnier place to

bring Listy from. He loads her down with them ribbons and gewgaws--all

the shades of the rainbow! Says he wants her to be the best-dressed

woman in the state. Callate she is,” added Moses, with conviction.

“Listy's a fine woman, but all she knows is enough to say, 'Yes,

Jethro,' and 'No, Jethro.'--Guess that's all Jethro wants in a wife; but

he certainly is good to her.”

“And why has he come back before the Legislature's over?” said

Wetherell.

“Cuttin' of his farms. Always comes back hayin' time. That's the way

Jethro spends the money he makes in politics, and he hain't no more of a

farmer than--” Moses looked at Wetherell.

“Than I'm a storekeeper,” said the latter, smiling.

“Than I'm a lawyer,” said Moses, politely.

They were interrupted at this moment by the appearance of Jake Wheeler

and Sam Price, who came gaping out of the darkness of the store.

“Was that Jethro, Mose?” demanded Jake. “Guess we'll go along up and see

if there's any orders.”

“I suppose the humblest of God's critturs has their uses,” Moses

remarked contemplatively, as he watched the retreating figures of Sam

and Jake. “Leastwise that's Jethro's philosophy. When you come to know

him, you'll notice how much those fellers walk like him. Never seed a

man who had so many imitators. Some of, 'em's took to talkie' like him,

even to stutterin'. Bijah Bixby, over to Clovelly, comes pretty nigh it,

too.”

Moses loaded his sugar and beans into his wagon, and drove off.

An air of suppressed excitement seemed to pervade those who came that

afternoon to the store to trade and talk--mostly to talk. After such

purchases as they could remember were made, they lingered on the barrels

and on the stoop, in the hope of seeing Jethro, whose habit; it was,

apparently, to come down and dispense such news as he thought fit for

circulation. That Wetherell shared this excitement, too, he could not

deny, but for a different cause. At last, when the shadows of the big

trees had crept across the green, he came, the customers flocking to

the porch to greet him, Wetherell standing curiously behind them in the

door. Heedless of the dust, he strode down the road with the awkward

gait that was all his own, kicking up his heels behind. And behind him,

heels kicking up likewise, followed Jake and Sam, Jethro apparently

oblivious of their presence. A modest silence was maintained from the

stoop, broken at length by Lem Hallowell, who (men said) was an exact

reproduction of Jock, the meeting-house builder. Lem alone was not

abashed in the presence of greatness.

“How be you, Jethro?” he said heartily. “Air the Legislatur' behavin'

themselves?”

“B-bout as common,” said Jethro.

Surely nothing very profound in this remark, but received as though it

were Solomon's.

Be prepared for a change in Jethro, after the galloping years. He is

now fifty-seven, but he might be any age. He is still smooth-shaven, his

skin is clear, and his eye is bright, for he lives largely on bread and

milk, and eschews stimulants. But the lines in his face have deepened

and his big features seem to have grown bigger.

“Who be you thinkin' of for next governor, Jethro?” queries Rias

Richardson, timidly.

“They say Alvy Hopkins of Gosport is willin' to pay for it,” said

Chester Perkins, sarcastically. Chester; we fear, is a born agitator,

fated to remain always in opposition. He is still a Democrat, and

Jethro, as is well known, has extended the mortgage so as to include

Chester's farm.

“Wouldn't give a Red Brook Seedling for Alvy,” ejaculated the nasal Mr.

Price.

“D-don't like Red Brook Seedlings, Sam? D-don't like 'em?” said Jethro.

He had parted his blue coat tails and seated himself on the stoop, his

long legs hanging over it.

“Never seed a man who had a good word to say for 'em,” said Mr. Price,

with less conviction.

“Done well on mine,” said Jethro, “d-done well. I was satisfied with my

Red Brook Seedlings.”

Mr. Price's sallow face looked as if he would have contradicted another

man.

“How was that, Jethro?” piped up Jake Wheeler, voicing the general

desire.

Jethro looked off into the blue space beyond the mountain line.

“G-got mine when they first come round--seed cost me considerable.

Raised more than a hundred bushels L-Listy put some of 'em on the

table--t-then gave some to my old hoss Tom. Tom said: 'Hain't I always

been a good beast, Jethro? Hain't I carried you faithful, summer

and winter, for a good many years? And now you give me Red Brook

Seedlings?'”

Here everybody laughed, and stopped abruptly, for Jethro still looked

contemplative.

“Give some of 'em to the hogs. W-wouldn't touch 'em. H-had over a

hundred bushels on hand--n-new variety. W-what's that feller's name down

to Ayer, Massachusetts, deals in all kinds of seeds? Ellett--that's it.

Wrote to Ellet, said I had a hundred bushels of Red Brooks to sell, as

fine a lookin' potato as I had in my cellar. Made up my mind to take

what he offered, if it was only five cents. He wrote back a dollar a

bushel. I-I was always satisfied with my Red Brook Seedlings, Sam. But I

never raised any more--n-never raised any more.”

Uproarious laughter greeted the end of this story, and continued in fits

as some humorous point recurred to one or the other of the listeners.

William Wetherell perceived that the conversation, for the moment at

least, was safely away from politics, and in that dubious state where it

was difficult to reopen. This was perhaps what Jethro wanted. Even Jake

Wheeler was tongue-tied, and Jethro appeared to be lost in reflection.

At this instant a diversion occurred--a trifling diversion, so it seemed

at the time. Around the corner of the store, her cheeks flushed and her

dark hair flying, ran little Cynthia, her hands, browned already by the

Coniston sun, filled with wild strawberries.

“See what I've found, Daddy!” she cried, “see what I've found!”

Jethro Bass started, and flung back his head like a man who has heard a

voice from another world, and then he looked at the child with a kind of

stupefaction. The cry, died on Cynthia's lips, and she stopped, gazing

up at him with wonder in her eyes.

“F-found strawberries?” said Jethro, at last.

“Yes,” she answered. She was very grave and serious now, as was her

manner in dealing with people.

“S-show 'em to me,” said Jethro.

Cynthia went to him, without embarrassment, and put her hand on his

knee. Not once had he taken his eyes from her face. He put out his

own hand with an awkward, shy movement, picked a strawberry from her

fingers, and thrust it in his mouth.

“Mm,” said Jethro, gravely. “Er--what's your name, little gal--what's

your name?”

“Cynthia.”

There was a long pause.

“Er--er--Cynthia?” he said at length, “Cynthia?”

“Cynthia.”

“Er-er, Cynthia--not Cynthy?”

“Cynthia,” she said again.

He bent over her and lowered his voice.

“M-may I call you Cynthy--Cynthy?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” answered Cynthia, looking up to her father and then glancing

shyly at Jethro.

His eyes were on the mountain, and he seemed to have forgotten her

until she reached out to him, timidly, another strawberry. He seized

her little hand instead and held it between his own--much to the

astonishment of his friends.

“Whose little gal be you?” he asked.

“Dad's.”

“She's Will Wetherell's daughter,” said Lem Hallowell. “He's took on

the store. Will,” he added, turning to Wetherell, “let me make you

acquainted with Jethro Bass.”

Jethro rose slowly, and towered above Wetherell on the stoop. There was

an inscrutable look in his black eyes, as of one who sees without being

seen. Did he know who William Wetherell was? If so, he gave no sign, and

took Wetherell's hand limply.

“Will's kinder hipped on book-l'arnin',” Lemuel continued kindly. “Come

here to keep store for his health. Guess you may have heerd, Jethro,

that Will married Cynthy Ware. You call Cynthy to mind, don't ye?”

Jethro Bass dropped Wetherell's hand, but answered nothing.

CHAPTER VIII

A week passed, and Jethro did not appear in the village, report having

it that he was cutting his farms on Thousand Acre Hill. When Jethro was

farming,--so it was said,--he would not stop to talk politics even with

the President of the United States were that dignitary to lean over

his pasture fence and beckon to him. On a sultry Friday morning, when

William Wetherell was seated at Jonah Winch's desk in the cool recesses

of the store slowly and painfully going over certain troublesome

accounts which seemed hopeless, he was thrown into a panic by the sight

of one staring at him from the far side of a counter. History sometimes

reverses itself.

“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?”

“Oh, yes,” said Cynthia.

“And country folks? L--like country folks better than city folks?”

“I didn't know many city folks,” said Cynthia. “I liked the old doctor

who sent Daddy up here ever so much, and I liked Mrs. Darwin.”

“Mis' Darwin?”

“She kept the house we lived in. She used to give me cookies,” said

Cynthia, “and bread to feed the pigeons.”

“Pigeons? F-folks keep pigeons in the city?”

“Oh, no,” said Cynthia, laughing at such an idea; “the pigeons came

on the roof under our window, and they used to fly right up on the

window-sill and feed out of my hand. They kept me company while Daddy,

was away, working. On Sundays we used to go into the Common and feed

them, before Daddy got sick. The Common was something like the country,

only not half as nice.”

“C-couldn't pick flowers in the Common and go barefoot--e--couldn't go

barefoot, Cynthy?”

“Oh, no,” said Cynthia, laughing again at his sober face.

“C-couldn't dig up the Common and plant flowers--could you?”

“Of course you couldn't.”

“P-plant 'em out there?” asked Jethro.

“Oh, yes,” cried Cynthia; “I'll show you.” She hesitated a moment, and

then thrust her hand into his. “Do you want to see?”

“Guess I do,” said he, energetically, and she led him into the garden,

pointing out with pride the rows of sweet peas and pansies, which she

had made herself. Impelled by a strange curiosity, William Wetherell

went to the door and watched them. There was a look on the face of

Jethro Bass that was new to it as he listened to the child talk of the

wondrous things around them that summer's day,--the flowers and the bees

and the brook (they must go down and stand on the brink of it), and the

songs of the vireo and the hermit thrush.

“Hain't lonely here, Cynthy--hain't lonely here?” he said.

“Not in the country,” said Cynthia. Suddenly she lifted her eyes to his

with a questioning look. “Are you lonely, sometimes?”

He did not answer at once.

“Not with you, Cynthy--not with you.”

By all of which it will be seen that the acquaintance was progressing.

They sat down for a while on the old millstone that formed the step,

and there discussed Cynthia's tastes. She was too old for dolls, Jethro

supposed. Yes, Cynthia was too old for dolls. She did not say so, but

the only doll she had ever owned had become insipid when the delight of

such a reality as taking care of a helpless father had been thrust upon

her. Books, suggested Jethro. Books she had known from her earliest

infancy: they had been piled around that bedroom over the roof. Books

and book lore and the command of the English tongue were William

Wetherell's only legacies to his daughter, and many an evening that

spring she had read him to sleep from classic volumes of prose and

poetry I hesitate to name, for fear you will think her precocious. They

went across the green to Cousin Ephraim Prescott's harness shop, where

Jethro had tied his horse, and it was settled that Cynthia liked books.

On the morning following this extraordinary conversation, Jethro Bass

and his wife departed for the state capital. Listy was bedecked in

amazing greens and yellows, and Jethro drove, looking neither to the

right nor left, his coat tails hanging down behind the seat, the reins

lying slack across the plump quarters of his horse--the same fat Tom

who, by the way, had so indignantly spurned the Iced Brook Seedlings.

And Jake Wheeler went along to bring back the team from Brampton. To

such base uses are political lieutenants sometimes put, although fate

would have told you it was an honor, and he came back to the store that

evening fairly bristling with political secrets which he could not be

induced to impart.

One evening a fortnight later, while the lieutenant was holding forth in

commendably general terms on the politics of the state to a speechless

if not wholly admiring audience, a bomb burst in their midst. William

Wetherell did not know that it was a periodical bomb, like those flung

at regular intervals from the Union mortars into Vicksburg. These bombs,

at any rate, never failed to cause consternation and fright in Coniston,

although they never did any harm. One thing noticeable, they were

always fired in Jethro's absence. And the bombardier was always Chester

Perkins, son of the most unbending and rigorous of tithing-men, but

Chester resembled his father in no particular save that he, too, was a

deacon and a pillar of the church. Deacon Ira had been tall and gaunt

and sunken and uncommunicative. Chester was stout, and said to perspire

even in winter, apoplectic, irascible, talkative, and still, as has

been said, a Democrat. He drove up to the store this evening to the not

inappropriate rumble of distant thunder, and he stood up in his wagon in

front of the gathering and shook his fist in Jake Wheeler's face.

“This town's tired of puttin' up with a King,” he cried. “Yes, King-=I

said it, and I don't care who hears me. It's time to stop this one-man

rule. You kin go and tell him I said it, Jake Wheeler, if you've a mind

to. I guess there's plenty who'll do that.”

An uneasy silence followed--the silence which cries treason louder than

any voice. Some shifted uneasily, and spat, and Jake Wheeler thrust

his hands in his pockets and walked away, as much as to say that it was

treason even to listen to such talk. Lem Hallowell seemed unperturbed.

“On the rampage agin, Chet?” he remarked.

“You'd ought to know better, Lem,” cried the enraged Chester; “hain't

the hull road by the Four Corners ready to drop into the brook? What be

you a-goin' to do about it?”

“I'll show you when I git to it,” answered Lem, quietly. And, show them

he did.

“Git to it!” shouted Chester, scornfully, “I'll git to it. I'll tell

you right now I'm a candidate for the Chairman of the Selectmen, if town

meetin' is eight months away. An', Sam Price, I'll expect the Democrats

to git into line.”

With this ultimatum Chester drove away as rapidly as he had come.

“I want to know!” said Sam Price, an exclamation peculiarly suited to

his voice. But nevertheless Sam might be counted on in each of these

little rebellions. He, too, had remained steadfast to Jacksonian

principles, and he had never forgiven Jethro about a little matter of a

state office which he (Sam) had failed to obtain.

Before he went to bed Jake Wheeler had written a letter which he

sent off to the state capital by the stage the next morning. In it he

indicted no less than twenty of his fellow-townsmen for treason; and

he also thought it wise to send over to Clovelly for Bijah Bixby,

a lieutenant in that section, to come and look over the ground and

ascertain by his well-known methods how far the treason had eaten into

the body politic. Such was Jake's ordinary procedure when the bombs were

fired, for Mr. Wheeler was nothing if not cautious.

Three mornings later, a little after seven o'clock, when the storekeeper

and his small daughter were preparing to go to Brampton upon a very

troublesome errand, Chester Perkins appeared again. It is always easy to

stir up dissatisfaction among the ne'er-do-wells (Jethro had once done

it himself), and during the three days which had elapsed since Chester

had flung down the gauntlet there had been more or less of downright

treason heard in the store. William Wetherell, who had perplexities of

his own, had done his best to keep out of the discussions that had raged

on his cracker boxes and barrels, for his head was a jumble of figures

which would not come right. And now as he stood there in the freshness

of the early summer morning, waiting for Lem Hallowell's stage, poor

Wetherell's heart was very heavy.

“Will Wetherell,” said Chester, “you be a gentleman and a student,

hain't you? Read history, hain't you?”

“I have read some,” said William Wetherell.

“I callate that a man of parts,” said Chester, “such as you be, will

help us agin corruption and a dictator. I'm a-countin' on you,

Will Wetherell. You've got the store, and you kin tell the boys the

difference between right and wrong. They'll listen to you, because

you're eddicated.”

“I don't know anything about politics,” answered Wetherell, with an

appealing glance at the silent group,--group that was always there. Rias

Richardson, who had donned the carpet slippers preparatory to tending

store for the day, shuffled inside. Deacon Lysander, his father, would

not have done so.

“You know somethin' about history and the Constitootion, don't ye?”

demanded Chester, truculently. “N'Jethro Bass don't hold your mortgage,

does he? Bank in Brampton holds it--hain't that so? You hain't afeard of

Jethro like the rest on 'em, be you?”

“I don't know what right you have to talk to me that way, Mr. Perkins,”

said Wetherell.

“What right? Jethro holds my mortgage--the hull town knows it-and he kin

close me out to-morrow if he's a mind to--”

“See here, Chester Perkins,” Lem Hallowell interposed, as he drove up

with the stage, “what kind of free principles be you preachin'? You'd

ought to know better'n coerce.”

“What be you a-goin' to do about that Four Corners road?” Chester cried

to the stage driver.

“I give 'em till to-morrow night to fix it,” said Lem. “Git in, Will.

Cynthy's over to the harness shop with Eph. We'll stop as we go 'long.”

“Give 'em till to-morrow night!” Chester shouted after them. “What you

goin' to do then?”

But Lem did not answer this inquiry. He stopped at the harness shop,

where Ephraim came limping out and lifted Cynthia to the seat beside her

father, and they joggled off to Brampton. The dew still lay in myriad

drops on the red herd's-grass, turning it to lavender in the morning

sun, and the heavy scent of the wet ferns hung in the forest. Lem

whistled, and joked with little Cynthia, and gave her the reins to

drive, and of last they came in sight of Brampton Street, with its

terrace-steepled church and line of wagons hitched to the common rail,

for it was market day. Father and daughter walked up and down, hand in

hand, under the great trees, and then they went to the bank.

It was a brick building on a corner opposite the common, imposing for

Brampton, and very imposing to Wetherell. It seemed like a tomb as he

entered its door, Cynthia clutching his fingers, and never but once

in his life had he been so near to leaving all hope behind. He waited

patiently by the barred windows until the clerk, who was counting bills,

chose to look up at him.

“Want to draw money?” he demanded.

The words seemed charged with irony. William Wetherell told him,

falteringly, his name and business, and he thought the man looked at him

compassionately.

“You'll have to see Mr. Worthington,” he said; “he hasn't gone to the

mills yet.”

“Dudley Worthington?” exclaimed Wetherell.

The teller smiled.

“Yes. He's the president of this bank.”'

He opened a door in the partition, and leaving Cynthia dangling her feet

from a chair, Wetherell was ushered, not without trepidation, into the

great man's office, and found himself at last in the presence of Mr.

Isaac D. Worthington, who used to wander up and down Coniston Water

searching for a mill site.

He sat behind a table covered with green leather, on which papers were

laid with elaborate neatness, and he wore a double-breasted skirted coat

of black, with braided lapels, a dark purple blanket cravat with a large

red cameo pin. And Mr. Worthington's features harmonized perfectly with

this costume--those of a successful, ambitious man who followed custom

and convention blindly; clean-shaven, save for reddish chops, blue eyes

of extreme keenness, and thin-upped mouth which had been tightening year

by year as the output of the Worthington Minx increased.

“Well, sir,” he said sharply, “what can I do for you?”

“I am William Wetherell, the storekeeper at Coniston.”

“Not the Wetherell who married Cynthia Ware!”

No, Mr. Worthington did not say that. He did not know that Cynthia Ware

was married, or alive or dead, and--let it be confessed at once--he did

not care.

This is what he did say:--

“Wetherell--Wetherell. Oh, yes, you've come about that note--the

mortgage on the store at Coniston.” He stared at William Wetherell,

drummed with his fingers on the table, and smiled slightly. “I am happy

to say that the Brampton Bank does not own this note any longer. If we

did,--merely as a matter of business, you understand” (he coughed),--“we

should have had to foreclose.”

“Don't own the note!” exclaimed Wetherell. “Who does own it?”

“We sold it a little while ago--since you asked for the extension--to

Jethro Bass.”

“Jethro Bass!” Wetherell's feet seemed to give way under him, and he sat

down.

“Mr. Bass is a little quixotic--that is a charitable way to put

it--quixotic. He does--strange things like this once in awhile.”

The storekeeper found no words to answer, but sat mutely staring at him.

Mr. Worthington coughed again.

“You appear to be an educated man. Haven't I heard some story of your

giving up other pursuits in Boston to come up here for your health?

Certainly I place you now. I confess to a little interest in literature

myself--in libraries.”

In spite of his stupefaction at the news he had just received, Wetherell

thought of Mr. Worthington's beaver hat, and of that gentleman's first

interest in libraries, for Cynthia had told the story to her husband.

“It is perhaps an open secret,” continued Mr. Worthington, “that in the

near future I intend to establish a free library in Brampton. I feel it

my duty to do all I can for the town where I have made my success, and

there is nothing which induces more to the popular welfare than a good

library.” Whereupon he shot at Wetherell another of his keen looks.

“I do not talk this way ordinarily to my customers, Mr. Wetherell,” he

began; “but you interest me, and I am going to tell you something in

confidence. I am sure it will not be betrayed.”

“Oh, no,” said the bewildered storekeeper, who was in no condition to

listen to confidences.

He went quietly to the door, opened it, looked out, and closed it

softly. Then he looked out of the window.

“Have a care of this man Bass,” he said, in a lower voice. “He began

many years ago by debauching the liberties of that little town of

Coniston, and since then he has gradually debauched the whole state,

judges and all. If I have a case to try” (he spoke now with more

intensity and bitterness), “concerning my mills, or my bank, before I

get through I find that rascal mixed up in it somewhere, and unless I

arrange matters with him, I--”

He paused abruptly, his eyes going out of the window, pointing with a

long finger at a grizzled man crossing the street with a yellow and red

horse blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“That man, Judge Baker, holding court in this town now, Bass owns body

and soul.”

“And the horse blanket?” Wetherell queried, irresistibly.

Dudley Worthington did not smile.

“Take my advice, Mr. Wetherell, and pay off that note somehow.” An odor

of the stable pervaded the room, and a great unkempt grizzled head and

shoulders, horse blanket and all, were stuck into it.

“Mornin', Dudley,” said the head, “busy?”

“Come right in, Judge,” answered Mr. Worthington. “Never too busy to see

you.” The head disappeared.

“Take my advice, Mr. Wetherell.”

And then the storekeeper went into the bank.

For some moments he stood dazed by what he had heard, the query ringing

in his head: Why had Jethro Bass bought that note? Did he think that the

storekeeper at Coniston would be of use to him, politically? The words

Chester Perkins had spoken that morning came back to Wetherell as he

stood in the door. And how was he to meet Jethro Bass again with no

money to pay even the interest on the note? Then suddenly he missed

Cynthia, hurried out, and spied her under the trees on the common so

deep in conversation with a boy that she did not perceive him until he

spoke to her. The boy looked up, smiling frankly at something Cynthia

had said to him. He had honest, humorous eyes, and a browned, freckled

face, and was, perhaps, two years older than Cynthia.

“What's the matter?” said Wetherell.

Cynthia's face was flushed, and she was plainly vexed about something.

“I gave her a whistle,” said the boy, with a little laugh of vexation,

“and now she says she won't take it because I owned up I made it for

another girl.”

Cynthia held it out to him, not deigning to appeal her ease.

“You must take it back,” she said.

“But I want you to have it,” said the boy.

“It wouldn't be right for me to take it when you made it for somebody

else.”

After all, people with consciences are born, not made. But this was a

finer distinction that the boy had ever met with in his experience.

“I didn't know you when I made the whistle,” he objected, puzzled and

downcast.

“That doesn't make any difference.”

“I like you better than the other girl.”

“You have no right to,” retorted the casuist; “you've known her longer.”

“That doesn't make any difference,” said the boy; “there are lots of

people I don't like I have always known. This girl doesn't live in

Brampton, anyway.”

“Where does she live?” demanded Cynthia,--which was a step backward.

“At the state capital. Her name's Janet Duncan. There, do you believe me

now?”

William Wetherell had heard of Janet Duncan's father, Alexander Duncan,

who had the reputation of being the richest man in the state. And he

began to wonder who the boy could be.

“I believe you,” said Cynthia; “but as long as you made it for her, it's

hers. Will you take it?”

“No,” said he, determinedly.

“Very well,” answered Cynthia. She laid down the whistle beside him on

the rail, and went off a little distance and seated herself on a bench.

The boy laughed.

“I like that girl,” he remarked; “the rest of 'em take everything I give

'em, and ask for more. She's prettier'n any of 'em, too.”

“What is your name?” Wetherell asked him, curiously, forgetting his own

troubles.

“Bob Worthington.”

“Are you the son of Dudley Worthington”

“Everybody asks me that,” he said; “I'm tired of it. When I grow up,

they'll have to stop it.”

“But you should be proud of your father.”

“I am proud of him, everybody's proud of him, Brampton's proud of

him--he's proud of himself. That's enough, ain't it?” He eyed Wetherell

somewhat defiantly, then his glance wandered to Cynthia, and he walked

over to her. He threw himself down on the grass in front of her, and

lay looking up at her solemnly. For a while she continued to stare

inflexibly at the line of market wagons, and then she burst into a

laugh.

“Thought you wouldn't hold out forever,” he remarked.

“It's because you're so foolish,” said Cynthia, “that's why I laughed.”

Then she grew sober again and held out her hand to him. “Good-by.”

“Where are you going?”

“I must go back to my father. I--I think he doesn't feel very well.”

“Next time I'll make a whistle for you,” he called after her.

“And give it to somebody else,” said Cynthia.

She had hold of her father's hand by that, but he caught up with her,

very red in the face.

“You know that isn't true,” he cried angrily, and taking his way across

Brampton Street, turned, and stood staring after them until they were

out of sight.

“Do you like him, Daddy?” asked Cynthia.

William Wetherell did not answer. He had other things to think about.

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Does your trouble feel any better?”

“Some, Cynthia. But you mustn't think about it.”

“Daddy, why don't you ask Uncle Jethro to help you?”

At the name Wetherell started as if he had had a shock.

“What put him into your head, Cynthia?” he asked sharply. “Why do you

call him 'Uncle Jethro'?”

“Because he asked me to. Because he likes me, and I like him.”

The whole thing was a riddle he could not solve--one that was best left

alone. They had agreed to walk back the ten miles to Coniston, to save

the money that dinner at the hotel would cost. And so they started,

Cynthia flitting hither and thither along the roadside, picking the

stately purple iris flowers in the marshy places, while Wetherell

pondered.

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IX

When William Wetherell and Cynthia had reached the last turn in the

road in Northcutt's woods, quarter of a mile from Coniston, they met the

nasal Mr. Samuel Price driving silently in the other direction. The

word “silently” is used deliberately, because to Mr. Price appertained

a certain ghostlike quality of flitting, and to Mr. Price's horse and

wagon likewise. He drew up for a brief moment when he saw Wetherell.

“Wouldn't hurry back if I was you, Will.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Price leaned out of the wagon.

“Bije has come over from Clovelly to spy around a little mite.”

It was evident from Mr. Price's manner that he regarded the storekeeper

as a member of the reform party.

“What did he say, Daddy?” asked Cynthia, as Wetherell stood staring

after the flitting buggy in bewilderment.

“I haven't the faintest idea, Cynthia,” answered her father, and they

walked on.

“Don't you know who 'Bije' is?

“No,” said her father, “and I don't care.”

It was almost criminal ignorance for a man who lived in that part of

the country not to know Bijah Bixby of Clovelly, who was paying a

little social visit to Coniston that day on his way home from the state

capital,--tending, as it were, Jethro's flock. Still, Wetherell must be

excused because he was an impractical literary man with troubles of

his own. But how shall we chronicle Bijah's rank and precedence in

the Jethro army, in which there are neither shoulder-straps nor annual

registers? To designate him as the Chamberlain of that hill Rajah, the

Honorable Heth Sutton, would not be far out of the way. The Honorable

Heth, whom we all know and whom we shall see presently, is the man of

substance and of broad acres in Clovelly: Bijah merely owns certain

mortgages in that town, but he had created the Honorable Heth

(politically) as surely as certain prime ministers we could name have

created their sovereigns. The Honorable Heth was Bijah's creation, and a

grand creation he was, as no one will doubt when they see him.

Bijah--as he will not hesitate to tell you--took Heth down in his pocket

to the Legislature, and has more than once delivered him, in certain

blocks of five and ten, and four and twenty, for certain considerations.

The ancient Song of Sixpence applies to Bijah, but his pocket was

generally full of proxies instead of rye, and the Honorable Heth was

frequently one of the four and twenty blackbirds. In short, Bijah was

the working bee, and the Honorable Heth the ornamental drone.

I do not know why I have dwelt so long on such a minor character as

Bijah, except that the man fascinates me. Of all the lieutenants in the

state, his manners bore the closest resemblance to those of Jethro Bass.

When he walked behind Jethro in the corridors of the Pelican, kicking up

his heels behind, he might have been taken for Jethro's shadow. He was

of a good height and size, smooth-shaven, with little eyes that kindled,

and his mouth moved not at all when he spoke: unlike Jethro, he “used”

tobacco.

When Bijah had driven into Coniston village and hitched his wagon to

the rail, he went direct to the store. Chester Perkins and others were

watching him with various emotions from the stoop, and Bijah took a

seat in the midst of them, characteristically engaging in conversation

without the usual conventional forms of greeting, as if he had been

there all day.

“H-how much did you git for your wool, Chester--h-how much?”

“Guess you hain't here to talk about wool, Bije,” said Chester, red with

anger.

“Kind of neglectin' the farm lately, I hear,” observed Bijah.

“Jethro Bass sent you up to find out how much I was neglectin' it,”

retorted Chester, throwing all caution to the winds.

“Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro, be you? Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro?”

remarked Bije, in a genial tone.

“Folks in Clovelly hain't got nothin' to do with it, if I am,” said

Chester.

“Leetle early for campaignin', Chester, leetle early.”

“We do our campaignin' when we're a mind to.”

Bijah looked around.

“Well, that's funny. I could have took oath I seed Rias Richardson

here.”

There was a deep silence.

“And Sam Price,” continued Bijah, in pretended astonishment, “wahn't he

settin' on the edge of the stoop when I drove up?”

Another silence, broken only by the enraged breathing of Chester, who

was unable to retort. Moses Hatch laughed. The discreet departure of

these gentlemen certainly had its comical side.

“Rias as indoostrious as ever, Mose?” inquired Bijah.

“He has his busy times,” said Mose, grinning broadly.

“See you've got the boys with their backs up, Chester,” said Bijah.

“Some of us are sick of tyranny,” cried Chester; “you kin tell that to

Jethro Bass when you go back, if he's got time to listen to you buyin'

and sellin' out of railroads.”

“Hear Jethro's got the Grand Gulf Road in his pocket to do as he's a

mind to with,” said Moses, with a view to drawing Bijah out. But the

remark had exactly the opposite effect, Bijah screwing up his face into

an expression of extraordinary secrecy and cunning.

“How much did you git out of it, Bije?” demanded Chester.

“Hain't looked through my clothes yet,” said Bijah, his face screwed

up tighter than ever. “N-never look through my clothes till I git home,

Chester, it hain't safe.”

It has become painfully evident that Mr. Bixby is that rare type of man

who can sit down under the enemy's ramparts and smoke him out. It was a

rule of Jethro's code either to make an effective departure or else to

remain and compel the other man to make an ineffective departure. Lem

Hallowell might have coped with him; but the stage was late, and after

some scratching of heads and delving for effectual banter (through which

Mr. Bixby sat genial and unconcerned), Chester's followers took their

leave, each choosing his own pretext.

In the meantime William Wetherell had entered the store by the back

door--unperceived, as he hoped. He had a vehement desire to be left in

peace, and to avoid politics and political discussions forever--vain

desire for the storekeeper of Coniston. Mr. Wetherell entered the store,

and to take his mind from his troubles, he picked up a copy of Byron:

gradually the conversation on the stoop died away, and just as he

was beginning to congratulate himself and enjoy the book, he had an

unpleasant sensation of some one approaching him measuredly. Wetherell

did not move; indeed, he felt that he could not--he was as though

charmed to the spot. He could have cried aloud, but the store was empty,

and there was no one to hear him. Mr. Bixby did not speak until he was

within a foot of his victim's ear. His voice was very nasal, too.

“Wetherell, hain't it?”

The victim nodded helplessly.

“Want to see you a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Where can we talk private?” asked Mr. Bixby, looking around.

“There's no one here,” Wetherell answered. “What do you wish to say?”

“If the boys was to see me speakin' to you, they might git

suspicious--you understand,” he confided, his manner conveying a hint

that they shared some common policy.

“I don't meddle with politics,” said Wetherell, desperately.

“Exactly!” answered Bijah, coming even closer. “I knowed you was a

level-headed man, moment I set eyes on you. Made up my mind I'd have a

little talk in private with you--you understand. The boys hain't got no

reason to suspicion you care anything about politics, have they?”

“None whatever.”

“You don't pay no attention to what they say?”

“None.”

“You hear it?”

“Sometimes I can't help it.”

“Ex'actly! You hear it.”

“I told you I couldn't help it.”

“Want you should vote right when the time comes,” said Bijah. “D-don't

want to see such an intelligent man go wrong an' be sorry for it--you

understand. Chester Perkins is hare-brained. Jethro Bass runs things in

this state.”

“Mr. Bixby--”

“You understand,” said Bijah, screwing up his face. “Guess your watch

is a-comin' out.” He tucked it back caressingly, and started for the

door--the back door. Involuntarily Wetherell put his hand to his pocket,

felt something crackle under it, and drew the something out. To his

amazement it was a ten-dollar bill.

“Here!” he cried so sharply in his fright that Mr. Bixby, turned around.

Wetherell ran after him. “Take this back!”

“Guess you got me,” said Bijah. “W-what is it?”

“This money is yours,” cried Wetherell, so loudly that Bijah started and

glanced at the front of the store.

“Guess you made some mistake,” he said, staring at the storekeeper with

such amazing innocence that he began to doubt his senses, and clutched

the bill to see if it was real.

“But I had no money in my pocket,” said Wetherell, perplexedly. And

then, gaining, indignation, “Take this to the man who sent you, and give

it back to him.”

But Bijah merely whispered caressingly in his ear, “Nobody sent me,--you

understand,--nobody sent me,” and was gone. Wetherell stood for a

moment, dazed by the man's audacity, and then, hurrying to the front

stoop, the money still in his hand, he perceived Mr. Bixby in the sunlit

road walking, Jethro-fashion, toward Ephraim Prescott's harness shop.

“Why, Daddy,” said Cynthia, coming in from the garden, “where did you

get all that money? Your troubles must feel better.”

“It is not mine,” said Wetherell, starting. And then, quivering with

anger and mortification, he sank down on the stoop to debate what he

should do.

“Is it somebody else's?” asked the child, presently.

“Yes.”

“Then why don't you give it back to them, Daddy?”

How was Wetherell to know, in his fright, that Mr. Bixby had for once

indulged in an overabundance of zeal in Jethro's behalf? He went to the

door, laughter came to him across the green from the harness shop, and

his eye following the sound, fastened on Bijah seated comfortably in the

midst of the group there. Bitterly the storekeeper comprehended that,

had he possessed courage, he would have marched straight after Mr. Bixby

and confronted him before them all with the charge of bribery. The blood

throbbed in his temples, and yet he sat there, trembling, despising

himself, repeating that he might have had the courage if Jethro Bass

had not bought the mortgage. The fear of the man had entered the

storekeeper's soul.

“Does it belong to that man over there?” asked Cynthia.

“Yes.”

“I'll take it to him, Daddy,” and she held out her hand.

“Not now,” Wetherell answered nervously, glancing at the group. He went

into the store, addressed an envelope to “Mr. Bijah Bixby of Clovelly,”

and gave it to Cynthia. “When he comes back for his wagon, hand it to

him,” he said, feeling that he would rather, at that moment, face the

devil himself than Mr. Bixby.

Half an hour later, Cynthia gave Mr. Bixby the envelope as he unhitched

his horse; and so deftly did Bijah slip it into his pocket, that he must

certainly have misjudged its contents. None of the loungers at Ephraim's

remarked the transaction.

If Jethro had indeed instructed Bijah to look after his flock at

Coniston, it was an ill-conditioned move, and some of the flock resented

it when they were quite sure that Bijah was climbing the notch road

toward Clovelly. The discussion (from which the storekeeper was

providentially omitted) was in full swing when the stage arrived, and

Lem Hallowell's voice silenced the uproar. It was Lem's boast that he

never had been and never would be a politician.

“Why don't you folks quit railin' against Jethro and do somethin'?” he

said. “Bije turns up here, and you all scatter like a flock of crows.

I'm tired of makin' complaints about that Brampton road, and to-day the

hull side of it give way, and put me in the ditch. Sure as the sun rises

to-morrow, I'm goin' to make trouble for Jethro.”

“What be you a-goin' to do, Lem?”

“Indict the town,” replied Lem, vigorously. “Who is the town? Jethro,

hain't he? Who has charge of the highways? Jethro Bass, Chairman of the

Selectmen. I've spoke to him, time and agin, about that piece, and

he hain't done nothin'. To-night I go to Harwich and git the court to

app'int an agent to repair that road, and the town'll hev to pay the

bill.”

The boldness of Lem's intention for the moment took away their breaths,

and then the awe-stricken hush which followed his declaration was broken

by the sound of Chester's fist hammering on the counter.

“That's the sperrit,” he cried; “I'll go along with you, Lem.”

“No, you won't,” said Lem, “you'll stay right whar you be.”

“Chester wants to git credit for the move,” suggested Sam Price, slyly.

“It's a lie, Sam Price,” shouted Chester. “What made you sneak off when

Bije Bixby come?”

“Didn't sneak off,” retorted Sam, indignantly, through his nose; “forgot

them eggs I left to home.”

“Sam,” said Lem, with a wink at Moses Hatch, “you hitch up your hoss and

fetch me over to Harwich to git that indictment. Might git a chance to

see that lady.”

“Wal, now, I wish I could, Lem, but my hoss is stun lame.”

There was a roar of laughter, during which Sam tried to look

unconcerned.

“Mebbe Rias'll take me over,” said Lem, soberly. “You hitch up, Rias?”

“He's gone,” said Joe Northcutt, “slid out the door when you was

speakin' to Sam.”

“Hain't none of you folks got spunk enough to carry me over to see the

jedge?” demanded Lem; “my horses ain't fit to travel to-night.” Another

silence followed, and Lem laughed contemptuously but good-naturedly, and

turned on his heel. “Guess I'll walk, then,” he said.

“You kin have my white hoss, Lem,” said Moses Hatch.

“All right,” said Lem; “I'll come round and hitch up soon's I git my

supper.”

An hour later, when Cynthia and her father and Millicent Skinner--who

condescended to assist in the work and cooking of Mr. Wetherell's

household--were seated at supper in the little kitchen behind the store,

the head and shoulders of the stage-driver were thrust in at the window,

his face shining from its evening application of soap and water. He was

making eyes at Cynthia.

“Want to go to Harwich, Will?” he asked.

William set his cup down quickly.

“You hain't afeard, be you?” he continued. “Most folks that hasn't went

West or died is afeard of Jethro Bass.”

“Daddy isn't afraid of him, and I'm not,” said Cynthia.

“That's right, Cynthy,” said Lem, leaning over and giving a tug to the

pigtail that hung down her back; “there hain't nothin' to be afeard of.”

“I like him,” said Cynthia; “he's very good to me.”

“You stick to him, Cynthy,” said the stage driver.

“Ready, Will?”

It may readily be surmised that Mr. Wetherell did not particularly wish

to make this excursion, the avowed object of which was to get Mr. Bass

into trouble. But he went, and presently he found himself jogging along

on the mountain road to Harwich. From the crest of Town's End ridge they

looked upon the western peaks tossing beneath a golden sky. The spell of

the evening's beauty seemed to have fallen on them both, and for a long

time Lem spoke not a word, and nodded smilingly but absently to the

greetings that came from the farm doorways.

“Will,” he said at last, “you acted sensible. There's no mite of use of

your gettin' mixed up in politics. You're too good for 'em.”

“Too good!” exclaimed the storekeeper.

“You're eddicated,” Lem replied, with a tactful attempt to cover up a

deficiency; “you're a gentleman, ef you do keep store.”

Lemuel apparently thought that gentlemen and politics were

contradictions. He began to whistle, while Wetherell sat and wondered

that any one could be so care-free on such a mission. The day faded, and

went out, and the lights of Harwich twinkled in the valley. Wetherell

was almost tempted to mention his trouble to this man, as he had been to

Ephraim: the fear that each might think he wished to borrow money held

him back.

“Jethro's all right,” Lem remarked, “but if he neglects the road, he's

got to stand for it, same's any other. I writ him twice to the capital,

and give him fair warning afore he went. He knows I hain't doin' of it

for politics. I've often thought,” Lem continued, “that ef some smart,

good woman could have got hold of him when he was young, it would have

made a big difference. What's the matter?”

“Have you room enough?”

“I guess I've got the hull seat,” said Lem. “As I was sayin', if some

able woman had married Jethro and made him look at things a little mite

different, he would have b'en a big man. He has all the earmarks. Why,

when he comes back to Coniston, them fellers'll hunt their holes like

rabbits, mark my words.”

“You don't think--”

“Don't think what?”

“I understand he holds the mortgages of some of them,” said Wetherell.

“Shouldn't blame him a great deal ef he did git tired and sell Chester

out soon. This thing happens regular as leap year.”

“Jethro Bass doesn't seem to frighten you,” said the storekeeper.

“Well,” said Lem, “I hain't afeard of him, that's so. For the life of

me, I can't help likin' him, though he does things that I wouldn't do

for all the power in Christendom. Here's Jedge Parkinson's house.”

Wetherell remained in the wagon while Lemuel went in to transact his

business. The judge's house, outlined in the starlight, was a modest

dwelling with a little porch and clambering vines, set back in its own

garden behind a picket fence. Presently, from the direction of the

lines of light in the shutters, came the sound of voices, Lem's deep

and insistent, and another, pitched in a high nasal key, deprecatory and

protesting. There was still another, a harsh one that growled something

unintelligible, and Wetherell guessed, from the fragments which he

heard, that the judge before sitting down to his duty was trying to

dissuade the stage driver from a step that was foolhardy. He guessed

likewise that Lem was not to be dissuaded. At length a silence followed,

then the door swung open, and three figures came down the illuminated

path.

“Like to make you acquainted with Jedge Abner Parkinson, Mr. Wetherell,

and Jim Irving. Jim's the sheriff of Truro County, and I guess the

jedge don't need any recommendation as a lawyer from me. You won't mind

stayin' awhile with the jedge while Jim and I go down town with the

team? You're both literary folks.”

Wetherell followed the judge into the house. He was sallow, tall

and spare and stooping, clean-shaven, with a hooked nose and bright

eyes--the face of an able and adroit man, and he wore the long black

coat of the politician-lawyer. The room was filled with books, and from

these Judge Parkinson immediately took his cue, probably through a fear

that Wetherell might begin on the subject of Lemuel's errand. However,

it instantly became plain that the judge was a true book lover, and

despite the fact that Lem's visit had disturbed him not a little, he

soon grew animated in a discussion on the merits of Sir Walter Scott,

paced the room, pitched his nasal voice higher and higher, covered his

table with volumes of that author to illustrate his meaning. Neither

of them heard a knock, and they both stared dumfounded at the man who

filled the doorway.

It was Jethro Bass!

He entered the room with characteristic unconcern, as if he had just

left it on a trivial errand, and without a “How do you do?” or a “Good

evening,” parted his coat tails, and sat down in the judge's armchair.

The judge dropped the volume of Scott on the desk, and as for Wetherell,

he realized for once the full meaning of the biblical expression of

a man's tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth; the gleam of one of

Jethro's brass buttons caught his eye and held it fascinated.

“Literary talk, Judge?” said Jethro. “D-don't mind me--go on.”

“Thought you were at the capital,” said the judge, reclaiming some of

his self-possession.

“Good many folks thought so,” answered Jethro, “g-good many folks.”

There was no conceivable answer to this, so the judge sat down with an

affectation of ease. He was a man on whom dignity lay heavily, and

was not a little ruffled because Wetherell had been a witness of

his discomfiture. He leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward,

stretching his neck and clearing his throat, a position in which he bore

a ludicrous resemblance to a turkey gobbler.

“Most through the Legislature?” inquired the judge.

“'Bout as common,” said Jethro.

There was a long silence, and, forgetful for the moment of his own

predicament, Wetherell found a fearful fascination in watching the

contortions of the victim whose punishment was to precede his. It had

been one of the delights of Louis XI to contemplate the movements of a

certain churchman whom he had had put in a cage, and some inkling of the

pleasure to be derived from this pastime of tyrants dawned on Wetherell.

Perhaps the judge, too, thought of this as he looked at “Quentin

Durward” on the table.

“I was just sayin' to Lem Hallowell,” began the judge, at last, “that I

thought he was a little mite hasty--”

“Er--indicted us, Judge?” said Jethro.

The judge and Wetherell heard the question with different emotions. Mr.

Parkinson did not seem astonished at the miracle which had put Jethro in

possession of this information, but heaved a long sigh of relief, as a

man will when the worst has at length arrived.

“I had to, Jethro--couldn't help it. I tried to get Hallowell to wait

till you come back and talk it over friendly, but he wouldn't listen;

said the road was dangerous, and that he'd spoken about it too often. He

said he hadn't anything against you.”

“Didn't come in to complain,” said Jethro, “didn't come in to complain.

Road is out of repair. W-what's the next move?”

“I'm sorry, Jethro--I swan I'm sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Well,” he

continued in his judicial manner, “the court has got to appoint an agent

to repair that road, the agent will present the bill, and the town will

have to pay the bill--whatever it is. It's too bad, Jethro, that you

have allowed this to be done.”

“You say you've got to app'int an agent?”

“Yes--I'm sorry--”

“Have you app'inted one?”

“No.”

“G-got any candidates?”

The judge scratched his head.

“Well, I don't know as I have.”

“Well, have you?”

“No,” said the judge.

“A-any legal objection to my bein' app'inted?” asked Jethro.

The judge looked at him and gasped. But the look was an involuntary

tribute of admiration.

“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “I don't know as there is, Jethro. No,

there's no legal objection to it.”

“A-any other kind of objection?” said Jethro.

The judge appeared to reflect.

“Well, no,” he said at last, “I don't know as there is.”

“Well, is there?” said Jethro, again.

“No,” said the judge, with the finality of a decision. A smile seemed to

be pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I'm a candidate,” said Jethro.

“Do you tell me, Jethro, that you want me to appoint you agent to fix

that road?”

“I-I'm a candidate.”

“Well,” said the judge, rising, “I'll do it.”

“When?” said Jethro, sitting still.

“I'll send the papers over to you within two or three days.

“O-ought to be done right away, Judge. Road's in bad shape.”

“Well, I'll send the papers over to you to-morrow.”

“How long--would it take to make out that app'intment--how long?”

“It wouldn't take but a little while.”

“I'll wait,” said Jethro.

“Do you want to take the appointment along with you to-night?” asked the

judge, in surprise.

“G-guess that's about it.”

Without a word the judge went over to his table, and for a while the

silence was broken only by the scratching of his pen.

“Er--interested in roads,--Will,--interested in roads?”

The judge stopped writing to listen, since it was now the turn of the

other victim.

“Not particularly,” answered Mr. Wetherell, whose throat was dry.

“C-come over for the drive--c-come over for the drive?”

“Yes,” replied the storekeeper, rather faintly.

“H-how's Cynthy?” said Jethro.

The storekeeper was too astonished to answer. At that moment there was

a heavy step in the doorway, and Lem Hallowell entered the room. He took

one long look at Jethro and bent over and slapped his hand on his knee,

and burst out laughing.

“So here you be!” he cried. “By Godfrey! ef you don't beat all outdoors,

Jethro. Wal, I got ahead of ye for once, but you can't say I didn't warn

ye. Come purty nigh bustin' the stage on that road today, and now I'm

a-goin' to hev an agent app'inted.”

“W-who's the agent?” said Jethro.

“We'll git one. Might app'int Will, there, only he don't seem to want to

get mixed up in it.”

“There's the agent,” cried the judge, holding out the appointment to

Jethro.

“Wh-what?” ejaculated Lem.

Jethro took the appointment, and put it in his cowhide wallet.

“Be you the agent?” demanded the amazed stage driver.

“C-callate to be,” said Jethro, and without a smile or another word to

any one he walked out into the night, and after various exclamations of

astonishment and admiration, the stage driver followed.

No one, indeed, could have enjoyed this unexpected coup of Jethro's more

than Lem himself, and many times on their drive homeward he burst into

loud and unexpected fits of laughter at the sublime conception of the

Chairman of the Selectmen being himself appointed road agent.

“Will,” said he, “don't you tell this to a soul. We'll have some fun out

of some of the boys to-morrow.”

The storekeeper promised, but he had an unpleasant presentiment that he

himself might be one of the boys in question.

“How do you suppose Jethro Bass knew you were going to indict the town?”

he asked of the stage driver.

Lem burst into fresh peals of laughter; but this was something which he

did not attempt to answer.

CHAPTER X

It so happened that there was a certain spinster whom Sam Price had been

trying to make up his mind to marry for ten years or more, and it was

that gentleman's habit to spend at least one day in the month in Harwich

for the purpose of paying his respects. In spite of the fact that his

horse had been “stun lame” the night before, Mr. Price was able to start

for Harwich, via Brampton, very early the next morning. He was driving

along through Northcutt's woods with one leg hanging over the wheel,

humming through his nose what we may suppose to have been a love-ditty,

and letting his imagination run riot about the lady in question, when he

nearly fell out of his wagon. The cause of this was the sight of fat Tom

coming around a corner, with Jethro Bass behind him. Lem Hallowell

and the storekeeper had kept their secret so well that Sam, if he was

thinking about Jethro at all, believed him at that moment to be seated

in the Throne Room at the Pelican House, in the capital.

Mr. Price, however, was one of an adaptable nature, and by the time he

had pulled up beside Jethro he had recovered sufficiently to make a few

remarks on farming subjects, and finally to express a polite surprise at

Jethro's return.

“But you come a little mite late, hain't you, Jethro?” he asked finally,

with all of the indifference he could assume.

“H-how's that, Sam--how's that?”

“It's too bad,--I swan it is,--but Lem Hallowell rode over to Harwich

last night and indicted the town for that piece of road by the Four

Corners. Took Will Wetherell along with him.”

“D-don't say so!” said Jethro.

“I callate he done it,” responded Sam, pulling a long face. “The

court'll hev to send an agent to do the job, and I guess you'll hev to

foot the bill, Jethro.”

“C-court'll hev to app'int an agent?”

“I callate.”

“Er--you a candidate--Sam--you a candidate?”

“Don't know but what I be,” answered the usually wary Mr. Price.

“G-goin' to Harwich--hain't you?”

“Mebbe I be, and mebbe I hain't,” said Sam, not able to repress a

self-conscious snicker.

“M-might as well be you as anybody, Sam,” said Jethro, as he drove on.

It was not strange that the idea, thus planted, should grow in Mr.

Price's favor as he proceeded. He had been surprised at Jethro's

complaisance, and he wondered whether, after all, he had done well

to help Chester stir people up at this time. When he reached Harwich,

instead of presenting himself promptly at the spinster's house, he

went first to the office of Judge Parkinson, as became a prudent man of

affairs.

Perhaps there is no need to go into the details of Mr. Price's

discomfiture on the occasion of this interview. The judge was by nature

of a sour disposition, but he haw-hawed so loudly as he explained to Mr.

Price the identity of the road agent that the judge of probate in the

next office thought his colleague had gone mad. Afterward Mr. Price

stood for some time in the entry, where no one could see him, scratching

his head and repeating his favorite exclamation, “I want to know!” It

has been ascertained that he omitted to pay his respects to the spinster

on that day.

Cyamon Johnson carried the story back to Coniston, where it had the

effect of eliminating Mr. Price from local politics for some time to

come.

That same morning Chester Perkins was seen by many driving wildly about

from farm to farm, supposedly haranguing his supporters to make a

final stand against the tyrant, but by noon it was observed by those

naturalists who were watching him that his activity had ceased. Chester

arrived at dinner time at Joe Northcutt's, whose land bordered on the

piece of road which had caused so much trouble, and Joe and half a dozen

others had been at work there all morning under the road agent whom

Judge Parkinson had appointed. Now Mrs. Northcutt was Chester's sister,

a woman who in addition to other qualities possessed the only sense

of humor in the family. She ushered the unsuspecting Chester into the

kitchen, and there, seated beside Joe and sipping a saucer of very hot

coffee, was Jethro Bass himself. Chester halted in the doorway, his face

brick-red, words utterly failing him, while Joe sat horror-stricken,

holding aloft on his fork a smoking potato. Jethro continued to sip his

coffee.

“B-busy times, Chester,” he said, “b-busy times.”

Chester choked. Where were the burning words of denunciation which came

so easily to his tongue on other occasions? It is difficult to denounce

a man who insists upon drinking coffee.

“Set right down, Chester,” said Mrs. Northcutt, behind him.

Chester sat down, and to this day he cannot account for that action.

Once seated, habit asserted itself; and he attacked the boiled dinner

with a ferocity which should have been exercised against Jethro.

“I suppose the stores down to the capital is finer than ever, Mr. Bass,”

remarked Mrs. Northcutt.

“So-so, Mis' Northcutt, so-so.”

“I was there ten years ago,” remarked Mrs. Northcutt, with a sigh of

reminiscence, “and I never see such fine silks and bonnets in my life.

Now I've often wanted to ask you, did you buy that bonnet with the

trembly jet things for Mis' Bass?”

“That bonnet come out full better'n I expected,” answered Jethro,

modestly.

“You have got taste in wimmin's fixin's, Mr. Bass. Strange? Now I

wouldn't let Joe choose my things for worlds.”

So the dinner progressed, Joe with his eyes on his plate, Chester

silent, but bursting with anger and resentment, until at last Jethro

pushed back his chair, and said good day to Mrs. Northcutt and walked

out. Chester got up instantly and went after him, and Joe, full of

forebodings, followed his brother-in-law! Jethro was standing calmly on

the grass plot, whittling a toothpick. Chester stared at him a moment,

and then strode off toward the barn, unhitched his horse and jumped in

his wagon. Something prompted him to take another look at Jethro, who

was still whittling.

“C-carry me down to the road, Chester--c-carry me down to the road?”

said Jethro.

Joe Northcutt's knees gave way under him, and he sat down on a sugar

kettle. Chester tightened up his reins so suddenly that his horse

reared, while Jethro calmly climbed into the seat beside him and they

drove off. It was some time before Joe had recovered sufficiently to

arise and repair to the scene of operations on the road.

It was Joe who brought the astounding news to the store that evening.

Chester was Jethro's own candidate for senior Selectman! Jethro himself

had said so, that he would be happy to abdicate in Chester's favor, and

make it unanimous--Chester having been a candidate so many times, and

disappointed.

“Whar's Chester?” said Lem Hallowell.

Joe pulled a long face.

“Just come from his house, and he hain't done a lick of work sence noon

time. Jest sets in a corner--won't talk, won't eat--jest sets thar.”

Lem sat down on the counter and laughed until he was forced to brush

the tears from his cheeks at the idea of Chester Perkins being Jethro's

candidate. Where was reform now? If Chester were elected, it would be in

the eyes of the world as Jethro's man. No wonder he sat in a corner and

refused to eat.

“Guess you'll ketch it next, Will, for goin' over to Harwich with Lem,”

Joe remarked playfully to the storekeeper, as he departed.

These various occurrences certainly did not tend to allay the uneasiness

of Mr. Wetherell. The next afternoon, at a time when a slack trade

was slackest, he had taken his chair out under the apple tree and

was sitting with that same volume of Byron in his lap--but he was

not reading. The humorous aspects of the doings of Mr. Bass did not

particularly appeal to him now; and he was, in truth, beginning to hate

this man whom the fates had so persistently intruded into his life.

William Wetherell was not, it may have been gathered, what may be called

vindictive. He was a sensitive, conscientious person whose life should

have been in the vale; and yet at that moment he had a fierce desire to

confront Jethro Bass and--and destroy him. Yes, he felt equal to that.

Shocks are not very beneficial to sensitive natures. William Wetherell

looked up, and there was Jethro Bass on the doorstep.

“G-great resource--readin'--great resource,” he remarked.

In this manner Jethro snuffed out utterly that passion to destroy,

and another sensation took its place--a sensation which made it very

difficult for William Wetherell to speak, but he managed to reply that

reading had been a great resource to him. Jethro had a parcel in his

hand, and he laid it down on the step beside him; and he seemed, for

once in his life, to be in a mood for conversation.

“It's hard for me to read a book,” he observed. “I own to it--it's a

little mite hard. H-hev to kind of spell it out in places. Hain't had

much time for readin'. But it's kind of pleasant to l'arn what other

folks has done in the world by pickin' up a book. T-takes your mind off

things--don't it?”

Wetherell felt like saying that his reading had not been able to do that

lately. Then he made the plunge, and shuddered as he made it.

“Mr. Bass--I--I have been waiting to speak to you about that mortgage.”

“Er--yes,” he answered, without moving his head, “er--about the

mortgage.”

“Mr. Worthington told me that you had bought it.”

“Yes, I did--yes, I did.”

“I'm afraid you will have to foreclose,” said Wetherell; “I cannot

reasonably ask you to defer the payments any longer.”

“If I foreclose it, what will you do?” he demanded abruptly.

There was but one answer--Wetherell would have to go back to the city

and face the consequences. He had not the strength to earn his bread on

a farm.

“If I'd a b'en in any hurry for the money--g-guess I'd a notified you,”

said Jethro.

“I think you had better foreclose, Mr. Bass,” Wetherell answered; “I

can't hold out any hopes to you that it will ever be possible for me to

pay it off. It's only fair to tell you that.”

“Well,” he said, with what seemed a suspicion of a smile, “I don't know

but what that's about as honest an answer as I ever got.”

“Why did you do it?” Wetherell cried, suddenly goaded by another fear;

“why did you buy that mortgage?”

But this did not shake his composure.

“H-have a little habit of collectin' 'em,” he answered, “same as you do

books. G-guess some of 'em hain't as valuable.”

William Wetherell was beginning to think that Jethro knew something also

of such refinements of cruelty as were practised by Caligula. He

drew forth his cowhide wallet and produced from it a folded piece of

newspaper which must, Wetherell felt sure, contain the mortgage in

question.

“There's one power I always wished I had,” he observed, “the power

to make folks see some things as I see 'em. I was acrost the Water

to-night, on my hill farm, when the sun set, and the sky up thar above

the mountain was all golden bars, and the river all a-flamin' purple,

just as if it had been dyed by some of them Greek gods you're readin'

about. Now if I could put them things on paper, I wouldn't care a

haycock to be President. No, sir.”

The storekeeper's amazement as he listened to this speech may be

imagined. Was this Jethro Bass? If so, here was a side of him the

existence of which no one suspected. Wetherell forgot the matter in

hand.

“Why don't you put that on paper?” he exclaimed.

Jethro smiled, and made a deprecating motion with his thumb.

“Sometimes when I hain't busy, I drop into the state library at the

capital and enjoy myself. It's like goin' to another world without

any folks to bother you. Er--er--there's books I'd like to talk to you

about--sometime.”

“But I thought you told me you didn't read much, Mr. Bass?”

He made no direct reply, but unfolded the newspaper in his hand, and

then Wetherell saw that it was only a clipping.

“H-happened to run across this in a newspaper--if this hain't this

county, I wahn't born and raised here. If it hain't Coniston Mountain

about seven o'clock of a June evening, I never saw Coniston Mountain.

Er--listen to this.”

Whereupon he read, with a feeling which Wetherell had not supposed he

possessed, an extract: and as the storekeeper listened his blood began

to run wildly. At length Jethro put down the paper without glancing at

his companion.

“There's somethin' about that that fetches you spinnin' through the

air,” he said slowly. “Sh-showed it to Jim Willard, editor of the

Newcastle Guardian. Er--what do you think he said?”

“I don't know,” said Wetherell, in a low voice.

“Willard said, 'Bass, w-wish you'd find me that man. I'll give him five

dollars every week for a letter like that--er--five dollars a week.'”

He paused, folded up the paper again and put it in his pocket, took out

a card and handed it to Wetherell.

James G. Willard, Editor.

Newcastle Guardian.

“That's his address,” said Jethro. “Er--guess you'll know what to do

with it. Er--five dollars a week--five dollars a week.”

“How did you know I wrote this article?” said Wetherell, as the card

trembled between his fingers.

“K-knowed the place was Coniston seen from the 'east, knowed there

wahn't any one is Brampton or Harwich could have done it--g-guessed the

rest--guessed the rest.”

Wetherell could only stare at him like a man who, with the halter about

his neck, has been suddenly reprieved. But Jethro Bass did not appear to

be waiting for thanks. He cleared his throat, and had Wetherell not been

in such a condition himself, he would actually have suspected him of

embarrassment.

“Er--Wetherell?”

“Yes?”

“W-won't say nothin' about the mortgage--p-pay it when you can.”

This roused the storekeeper to a burst of protest, but he stemmed it.

“Hain't got the money, have you?”

“No--but--”

“If I needed money, d'ye suppose I'd bought the mortgage?”

“No,” answered the still bewildered Wetherell, “of course not.” There

he stuck, that other suspicion of political coercion suddenly rising

uppermost. Could this be what the man meant? Wetherell put his hand

to his head, but he did not dare to ask the question. Then Jethro Bass

fixed his eyes upon him.

“Hain't never mixed any in politics--hev you n-never mixed any?”

Wetherell's heart sank.

“No,” he answered.

“D-don't--take my advice--d-don't.”

“What!” cried the storekeeper, so loudly that he frightened himself.

“D-don't,” repeated Jethro, imperturbably.

There was a short silence, the storekeeper being unable to speak.

Coniston Water, at the foot of the garden, sang the same song, but it

seemed to Wetherell to have changed its note from sorrow to joy.

“H-hear things, don't you--hear things in the store?”

“Yes.”

“Don't hear 'em. Keep out of politics, Will, s-stick to store-keepin'

and--and literature.”

Jethro got to his feet and turned his back on the storekeeper and picked

up the parcel he had brought.

“C-Cynthy well?” he inquired.

“I--I'll call her,” said Wetherell, huskily. “She--she was down by the

brook when you came.”

But Jethro Bass did not wait. He took his parcel and strode down to

Coniston Water, and there he found Cynthia seated on a rock with her

toes in a pool.

“How be you, Cynthy?” said he, looking down at her.

“I'm well, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia.

“R-remembered what I told you to call me, hev you,” said Jethro, plainly

pleased. “Th-that's right. Cynthy?”

Cynthia looked up at him inquiringly.

“S-said you liked books--didn't you? S-said you liked books?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied simply, “very much.”

He undid the wrapping of the parcel, and there lay disclosed a book with

a very gorgeous cover. He thrust it into the child's lap.

“It's 'Robinson Crusoe'!” she exclaimed, and gave a little shiver of

delight that made ripples in the pool. Then she opened it--not without

awe, for William Wetherell's hooks were not clothed in this magnificent

manner. “It's full of pictures,” cried Cynthia. “See, there he is making

a ship!”

“Y-you read it, Cynthy?” asked Jethro, a little anxiously.

No, Cynthia hadn't.

“L-like it, Cynthy--l-like it?” said he, not quite so anxiously.

Cynthia looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

“F-fetched it up from the capital for you, Cynthy--for you.”

“For me!”

A strange thrill ran through Jethro Bass as he gazed upon the wonder and

delight in the face of the child.

“F-fetched it for you, Cynthy.”

For a moment Cynthia sat very still, and then she slowly closed the book

and stared at the cover again, Jethro looking down at her the while. To

tell the truth, she found it difficult to express the emotions which the

event had summoned up.

“Thank you--Uncle Jethro,” she said.

Jethro, however, understood. He had, indeed, never failed to understand

her from the beginning. He parted his coat tails and sat down on the

rock beside her, and very gently opened the book again, to the first

chapter.

“G-goin' to read it, Cynthy?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and trembled again.

“Er--read it to me?”

So Cynthia read “Robinson Crusoe” to him while the summer afternoon wore

away, and the shadows across the pool grew longer and longer.

CHAPTER XI

Thus William Wetherell became established in Coniston, and was started

at last--poor man--upon a life that was fairly tranquil. Lem Hallowell

had once covered him with blushes by unfolding a newspaper in the

store and reading an editorial beginning: “We publish today a new

and attractive feature of the Guardian, a weekly contribution from a

correspondent whose modesty is to be compared only with his genius as a

writer. We are confident that the readers of our Raper will appreciate

the letter in another column signed 'W. W.'” And from that day William

was accorded much of the deference due to a litterateur which the fates

had hitherto denied him. Indeed, during the six years which we are about

to skip over so lightly, he became a marked man in Coniston, and it was

voted in towns meeting that he be intrusted with that most important of

literary labors, the Town History of Coniston.

During this period, too, there sprang up the strangest of intimacies

between him and Jethro Bass. Surely no more dissimilar men than these

have ever been friends, and that the friendship was sometimes misjudged

was one of the clouds on William Wetherell's horizon. As the years went

on he was still unable to pay off the mortgage; and sometimes, indeed,

he could not even meet the interest, in spite of the princely sum he

received from Mr. Willard of the Guardian. This was one of the clouds on

Jethro's horizon, too, if men had but known it, and he took such moneys

as Wetherell insisted upon giving him grudgingly enough. It is needless

to say that he refrained from making use of Mr. Wetherell politically,

although no poorer vessel for political purposes was ever constructed.

It is quite as needless to say, perhaps, that Chester Perkins never got

to be Chairman of the Board of Selectmen.

After Aunt Listy died, Jethro was more than ever to be found, when in

Coniston, in the garden or the kitchen behind the store. Yes, Aunt Listy

is dead. She has flitted through these pages as she flitted through life

itself, arrayed by Jethro like the rainbow, and quite as shadowy and

unreal. There is no politician of a certain age in the state who does

not remember her walking, clad in dragon-fly colors, through the streets

of the capital on Jethro's arm, or descending the stairs of the Pelican

House to supper. None of Jethro's detractors may say that he ever failed

in kindness to her, and he loved her as much as was in his heart to love

any woman after Cynthia Ware. As for Aunt Listy, she never seemed to

feel any resentment against the child Jethro brought so frequently to

Thousand Acre Hill. Poor Aunt Listy! some people used to wonder whether

she ever felt any emotion at all. But I believe that she did, in her own

way.

It is a well-known fact that Mr. Bijah Bixby came over from Clovelly, to

request the place of superintendent of the funeral, a position which had

already been filled. A special office, too, was created on this occasion

for an old supporter of Jethro's, Senator Peleg Hartington of Brampton.

He was made chairman of the bearers, of whom Ephraim Prescott was one.

After this, as we have said, Jethro was more than ever at the store--or

rather in that domestic domain behind it which Wetherell and Cynthia

shared with Miss Millicent Skinner. Moses Hatch was wont to ask Cynthia

how her daddies were. It was he who used to clear out the road to the

little schoolhouse among the birches when the snow almost buried the

little village, and on sparkling mornings after the storms his oxen

would stop to breathe in front of the store, a cluster of laughing

children clinging to the snow-plough and tumbling over good-natured

Moses in their frolics. Cynthia became a country girl, and grew long and

lithe of limb, and weather-burnt, and acquired an endurance that spoke

wonders for the life-giving air of Coniston. But she was a serious

child, and Wetherell and Jethro sometimes wondered whether she was ever

a child at all. When Eben Hatch fell from the lumber pile on the ice,

it was she who bound the cut in his head; and when Tom Richardson

unexpectedly embraced the schoolhouse stove, Cynthia, not Miss Rebecca

Northcutt, took charge of the situation.

It was perhaps inevitable, with such a helpless father, that the girl

should grow up with a sense of responsibility, being what she was. Did

William Wetherell go to Brampton, Cynthia examined his apparel, and he

was marched shamefacedly back to his room to change; did he read too

late at night, some unseen messenger summoned her out of her sleep, and

he was packed off to bed. Miss Millicent Skinner, too, was in a like

mysterious way compelled to abdicate her high place in favor of Cynthia,

and Wetherell was utterly unable to explain how this miracle was

accomplished. Not only did Millicent learn to cook, but Cynthia, at

the age of fourteen, had taught her. Some wit once suggested that the

national arms of the United States should contain the emblem of crossed

frying-pans, and Millicent was in this respect a true American. When

Wetherell began to suffer from her pies and doughnuts, the revolution

took place--without stampeding, or recriminations, or trouble of any

kind. One evening he discovered Cynthia, decked in an apron, bending

over the stove, and Millicent looking on with an expression that was

(for Millicent) benign.

This was to some extent explained, a few days later, when Wetherell

found himself gazing across the counter at the motherly figure of Mrs.

Moses Hatch, who held the well-deserved honor of being the best cook in

Coniston.

“Hain't had so much stomach trouble lately, Will?” she remarked.

“No,” he answered, surprised; “Cynthia is learning to cook.”

“Guess she is,” said Mrs. Moses. “That gal is worth any seven grown-up

women in town. And she was four nights settin' in my kitchen before I

knowed what she was up to.”

“So you taught her, Amanda?

“I taught her some. She callated that Milly was killin' you, and I guess

she was.”

During her school days, Jethro used frequently to find himself in

front of the schoolhouse when the children came trooping out--quite

by accident, of course. Winter or summer, when he went away on his

periodical trips, he never came back without a little remembrance in his

carpet bag, usually a book, on the subject of which he had spent hours

in conference with the librarian at the state library at the capital.

But in June of the year when Cynthia was fifteen, Jethro yielded to

that passion which was one of the man's strangest characteristics, and

appeared one evening in the garden behind the store with a bundle which

certainly did not contain a book. With all the gravity of a ceremony he

took off the paper, and held up in relief against the astonished Cynthia

a length of cardinal cloth. William Wetherell, who was looking out

of the window, drew his breath, and even Jethro drew back with an

exclamation at the change wrought in her. But Cynthia snatched the roll

from his hand and wound it up with a feminine deftness.

“Wh-what's the matter, Cynthy?”

“Oh, I can't wear that, Uncle Jethro,” she said.

“C-can't wear it! Why not?”

Cynthia sat down on the grassy mound under the apple tree and clasped

her hands across her knees. She looked up at him and shook her head.

“Don't you see that I couldn't wear it, Uncle Jethro?”

“Why not?” he demanded. “Ch-change it if you've a mind to hev green.”

She shook her head, and smiled at him a little sadly.

“T-took me a full hour to choose that, Cynthy,” said he. “H-had to go to

Boston so I got it there.”

He was, indeed, grievously disappointed at this reception of his gift,

and he stood eying the cardinal cloth very mournfully as it lay on the

paper. Cynthia, remorseful, reached up and seized his hand.

“Sit down here, Uncle Jethro.” He sat down on the mound beside her, very

much perplexed. She still held his hand in hers. “Uncle Jethro,” she

said slowly, “you mustn't think I'm not grateful.”

“N-no,” he answered; “I don't think that, Cynthy. I know you be.”

“I am grateful--I'm very grateful for everything you give me, although I

should love you just as much if you didn't give me anything.”

She was striving very hard not to offend him, for in some ways he was

as sensitive as Wetherell himself. Even Coniston folk had laughed at the

idiosyncrasy which Jethro had of dressing his wife in brilliant colors,

and the girl knew this.

“G-got it for you to wear to Brampton on the Fourth of July, Cynthy,” he

said.

“Uncle Jethro, I couldn't wear that to Brampton!”

“You'd look like a queen,” said he.

“But I'm not a queen,” objected Cynthia.

“Rather hev somethin' else?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at him suddenly with the gleam of laughter in

her eyes, although she was on the verge of tears.

“Wh-what?” Jethro demanded.

“Well,” said Cynthia, demurely gazing down at her ankles, “shoes and

stockings.” The barefooted days had long gone by.

Jethro laughed. Perhaps some inkling of her reasons came to him, for

he had a strange and intuitive understanding of her. At any rate, he

accepted her decision with a meekness which would have astonished many

people who knew only that side of him which he showed to the world.

Gently she released her hand, and folded up the bundle again and gave it

to him.

“B-better keep it--hadn't you?”

“No, you keep it. And I will wear it for you when I am rich, Uncle

Jethro.”

Jethro did keep it, and in due time the cardinal cloth had its uses. But

Cynthia did not wear it on the Fourth of July.

That was a great day for Brampton, being not only the nation's birthday,

but the hundredth year since the adventurous little band of settlers

from Connecticut had first gazed upon Coniston Water at that place.

Early in the morning wagon loads began to pour into Brampton Street

from Harwich, from Coniston, from Tarleton Four Corners, and even from

distant Clovelly, and Brampton was banner-hung for the occasion--flags

across the stores, across the dwellings, and draped along the whole

breadth of the meeting-house; but for sheer splendor the newly built

mansion of Isaac D. Worthington outshone them all. Although its owner

was a professed believer in republican simplicity, no such edifice

ornamented any town to the west of the state capital. Small wonder that

the way in front of it was blocked by a crowd lost in admiration of

its Gothic proportions! It stands to-day one of many monuments to its

builder, with its windows of one pane (unheard-of magnificence), its

tower of stone, its porch with pointed arches and scroll-work. No fence

divides its grounds from the public walk, and on the smooth-shaven lawn

between the ornamental flower beds and the walk stand two stern mastiffs

of iron, emblematic of the solidity and power of their owner. It was

as much to see this house as to hear the oratory that the countryside

flocked to Brampton that day.

All the day before Cynthia and Milly, and many another housewife, had

been making wonderful things for the dinners they were to bring, and

stowing them in the great basket ready for the early morning start. At

six o'clock Jethro's three-seated farm wagon was in front of the store.

Cousin Ephraim Prescott, in a blue suit and an army felt hat with a

cord, got up behind, a little stiffly by reason of that Wilderness

bullet; and there were also William Wetherell and Lem Hallowell, his

honest face shining, and Sue, his wife, and young Sue and Jock and

Lilian, all a-quiver with excitement in their Sunday best.

And as they drove away there trotted up behind them Moses and Amandy

Hatch, with their farm team, and all the little Hatches,--Eben and

George and Judy and Liza. As they jogged along they drank in the

fragrance of the dew-washed meadows and the pines, and a great

blue heron stood knee-deep on the far side of Deacon Lysander's old

mill-pond, watching them philosophically as they passed.

It was eight o'clock when they got into the press of Brampton Street,

and there was a hush as they made their way slowly through the throng,

and many a stare at the curious figure in the old-fashioned blue

swallowtail and brass buttons and tall hat, driving the farm wagon.

Husbands pointed him out to their wives, young men to sisters and

sweethearts, some openly, some discreetly. “There goes Jethro Bass,” and

some were bold enough to say, “Howdy, Jethro?” Jake Wheeler was to be

observed in the crowd ahead of them, hurried for once out of his

Jethro step, actually running toward the tavern, lest such a one arrive

unheralded. Commotion is perceived on the tavern porch,--Mr. Sherman,

the proprietor, bustling out, Jake Wheeler beside him; a chorus of “How

be you, Jethros?” from the more courageous there,--but the farm team

jogs on, leaving a discomfited gathering, into the side street, up an

alley, and into the cool, ammonia-reeking sheds of lank Jim Sanborn's

livery stable. No obsequiousness from lank Jim, who has the traces

slipped and the reins festooned from the bits almost before Jethro has

lifted Cynthia to the floor. Jethro, walking between Cynthia and her

father, led the way, Ephraim, Lem, and Sue Hallowell following, the

children, in unwonted shoes and stockings, bringing up the rear.

The people parted, and presently they found themselves opposite the

new-scrolled band stand among the trees, where the Harwich band in

glittering gold and red had just been installed. The leader; catching

sight of Jethro's party, and of Ephraim's corded army hat, made a bow,

waved his baton, and they struck up “Marching through Georgia.” It was,

of course, not dignified to cheer, but I think that the blood of every

man and woman and child ran faster with the music, and so many of them

looked at Cousin Ephraim that he slipped away behind the line of wagons.

So the day began.

“Jest to think of bein' that rich, Will!” exclaimed Amanda Hatch to the

storekeeper, as they stood in the little group which had gathered in

front of the first citizen's new mansion. “I own it scares me. Think how

much that house must hev cost, and even them dogs,” said Amanda, staring

at the mastiffs with awe. “They tell me he has a grand piano from

New York, and guests from Boston railroad presidents. I call Isaac

Worthington to mind when he wahn't but a slip of a boy with a cough,

runnin' after Cynthy Ware.” She glanced down at Cynthia with something

of compassion. “Just to think, child, he might have be'n your father!”

“I'm glad he isn't,” said Cynthia, hotly.

“Of course, of course,” replied the good-natured and well-intentioned

Amanda, “I'd sooner have your father than Isaac Worthington. But I was

only thinkin' how nice it would be to be rich.”

Just then one of the glass-panelled doors of this house opened, and a

good-looking lad of seventeen came out.

“That's Bob Worthington,” said Amanda, determined that they should miss

nothing. “My! it wahn't but the other day when he put on long pants. It

won't be a great while before he'll go into the mills and git all that

money. Guess he'll marry some city person. He'd ought to take you,

Cynthy.”

“I don't want him,” said Cynthia, the color flaming into her cheeks. And

she went off across the green in search of Jethro.

There was a laugh from the honest country folk who had listened. Bob

Worthington came to the edge of the porch and stood there, frankly

scanning the crowd, with an entire lack of self-consciousness. Some of

them shifted nervously, with the New Englander's dislike of being caught

in the act of sight-seeing.

“What in the world is he starin' at me for?” said Amanda, backing behind

the bulkier form of her husband. “As I live, I believe he's comin'

here.”

Young Mr. Worthington was, indeed, descending the steps and walking

across the lawn toward them, nodding and smiling to acquaintances as he

passed. To Wetherell's astonishment he made directly for the place where

he was standing and held out his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?” he said. “Perhaps you don't remember

me,--Bob Worthington.”

“I can't say that I should have known you,” answered the storekeeper.

They were all absurdly silent, thinking of nothing to say and admiring

the boy because he was at ease.

“I hope you have a good seat at the exercises,” he said, pressing

Wetherell's hand again, and before he could thank him, Bob was off in

the direction of the band stand.

“One thing,” remarked Amanda, “he ain't much like his dad. You'd never

catch Isaac Worthington bein' that common.”

Just then there came another interruption for William Wetherell, who was

startled by the sound of a voice in his ear--a nasal voice that awoke

unpleasant recollections. He turned to confront, within the distance of

eight inches, the face of Mr. Bijah Bixby of Clovelly screwed up into

a greeting. The storekeeper had met Mr. Bixby several times since that

first memorable meeting, and on each occasion, as now, his hand had made

an involuntary movement to his watch pocket.

“Hain't seed you for some time, Will,” remarked Mr. Bixby; “goin' over

to the exercises? We'll move along that way,” and he thrust his hand

under Mr. Wetherell's elbow. “Whar's Jethro?”

“He's here somewhere,” answered the storekeeper, helplessly, moving

along in spite of himself.

“Keepin' out of sight, you understand,” said Bijah, with a knowing wink,

as much as to say that Mr. Wetherell was by this time a past master in

Jethro tactics. Mr. Bixby could never disabuse his mind of a certain

interpretation which he put on the storekeeper's intimacy with Jethro.

“You done well to git in with him, Will. Didn't think you had it in you

when I first looked you over.”

Mr. Wetherell wished to make an indignant denial, but he didn't know

exactly how to begin.

“Smartest man in the United States of America--guess you know that,” Mr.

Bixby continued amiably. “They can't git at him unless he wants 'em to.

There's a railroad president at Isaac Worthington's who'd like to git at

him to-day,--guess you know that,--Steve Merrill.”

Mr. Wetherell didn't know, but he was given no time to say so.

“Steve Merrill, of the Grand Gulf and Northern. He hain't here to see

Worthington; he's here to see Jethro, when Jethro's a mind to. Guess you

understand.”

“I know nothing about it,” answered Wetherell, shortly. Mr. Bixby gave

him a look of infinite admiration, as though he could not have pursued

any more admirable line.

“I know Steve Merrill better'n I know you,” said Mr. Bixby, “and he

knows me. Whenever he sees me at the state capital he says, 'How be you,

Bije?' just as natural as if I was a railroad president, and slaps me

on the back. When be you goin' to the capital, Will? You'd ought to come

down and be thar with the boys on this Truro Bill. You could reach some

on 'em the rest of us couldn't git at.”

William Wetherell avoided a reply to this very pointed inquiry by

escaping into the meeting-house, where he found Jethro and Cynthia and

Ephraim already seated halfway up the aisle.

On the platform, behind a bank of flowers, are the velvet covered chairs

which contain the dignitaries of the occasion. The chief of these is, of

course, Mr. Isaac Worthington, the one with the hawk-like look, sitting

next to the Rev. Mr. Sweet, who is rather pudgy by contrast. On the

other side of Mr. Sweet, next to the parlor organ and the quartette,

is the genial little railroad president Mr. Merrill, batting the flies

which assail the unprotected crown of his head, and smiling benignly on

the audience.

Suddenly his eye becomes fixed, and he waves a fat hand vigorously at

Jethro, who answers the salute with a nod of unwonted cordiality for

him. Then comes a hush, and the exercises begin.

There is a prayer, of course, by the Rev. Mr. Sweet, and a rendering

of “My Country” and “I would not Change my Lot,” and other choice

selections by the quartette; and an original poem recited with much

feeling by a lady admirer of Miss Lucretia Penniman, and the “Hymn to

Coniston” declaimed by Mr. Gamaliel Ives, president of the Brampton

Literary Club. But the crowning event is, of course, the oration by Mr.

Isaac D. Worthington, the first citizen, who is introduced under that

title by the chairman of the day; and as the benefactor of Brampton, who

has bestowed upon the town the magnificent gift which was dedicated such

a short time ago, the Worthington Free Library.

Mr. Isaac D. Worthington stood erect beside the table, his hand thrust

into the opening of his coat, and spoke at the rate of one hundred and

eight words a minute, for exactly one hour. He sketched with much skill

the creed of the men who had fought their way through the forests to

build their homes by Coniston Water, who had left their clearings to

risk their lives behind Stark and Ethan Allen for that creed; he paid a

graceful tribute to the veterans of the Civil War, scattered among his

hearers--a tribute, by the way, which for some reason made Ephraim very

indignant. Mr. Worthington went on to outline the duty of citizens of

the present day, as he conceived it, and in this connection referred,

with becoming modesty, to the Worthington Free Library. He had made his

money in Brampton, and it was but right that he should spend it for

the benefit of the people of Brampton. The library, continued Mr.

Worthington when the applause was over, had been the dream of a certain

delicate youth who had come, many years ago, to Brampton for his health.

(It is a curious fact, by the way, that Mr. Worthington seldom recalled

the delicate youth now, except upon public occasions.)

Yes, the dream of that youth had been to benefit in some way that

community in which circumstances had decreed that he should live, and

in this connection it might not be out of place to mention a bill then

before the Legislature of the state, now in session. If the bill became

a law, the greatest modern factor of prosperity, the railroad, would

come to Brampton. The speaker was interrupted here by more applause.

Mr. Worthington did not deem it dignified or necessary to state that the

railroad to which he referred was the Truro Railroad; and that he, as

the largest stockholder, might indirectly share that prosperity with

Brampton. That would be wandering too far, from his subject, which, it

will be recalled, was civic duties. He took a glass of water, and went

on to declare that he feared--sadly feared--that the ballot was not held

as sacred as it had once been. He asked the people of Brampton, and

of the state, to stop and consider who in these days made the laws and

granted the franchises. Whereupon he shook his head very slowly and

sadly, as much as to imply that, if the Truro Bill did not pass, the

corruption of the ballot was to blame. No, Mr. Worthington could

think of no better subject on this Birthday of Independence than a

recapitulation of the creed of our forefathers, from which we had so far

wandered.

In short, the first citizen, as became him, had delivered the first

reform speech ever heard in Brampton, and the sensation which it created

was quite commensurate to the occasion. The presence in the audience of

Jethro Bass, at whom many believed the remarks to have been aimed, added

no little poignancy to that sensation, although Jethro gave no outward

signs of the terror and remorse by which he must have been struck while

listening to Mr. Worthington's ruminations of the corruption of the

ballot. Apparently unconscious of the eyes upon him, he walked out of

the meeting-house with Cynthia by his side, and they stood waiting for

Wetherell and Ephraim under the maple tree there.

The be-ribboned members of the Independence Day committee were now on

the steps, and behind them came Isaac Worthington and Mr. Merrill. The

people, scenting a dramatic situation, lingered. Would the mill owner

speak to the boss? The mill owner, with a glance at the boss, did

nothing of the kind, but immediately began to talk rapidly to Mr.

Merrill. That gentleman, however, would not be talked to, but came

running over to Jethro and seized his hand, leaving Mr. Worthington to

walk on by himself.

“Jethro,” cried the little railroad president, “upon my word. Well,

well. And Miss Jethro,” he took off his hat to Cynthia, “well, well.

Didn't know you had a girl, Jethro.”

“W-wish she was mine, Steve,” said Jethro. “She's a good deal to me as

it is. Hain't you, Cynthy?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Merrill, staring at her, “you'll have to look out

for her some day--keep the boys away from her--eh? Upon my word! Well,

Jethro,” said he, with a twinkle in his eye, “are you goin' to reform?

I'll bet you've got an annual over my road in your pocket right now.”

“Enjoy the speech-makin', Steve?” inquired Mr. Bass, solemnly.

Mr. Merrill winked at Jethro, and laughed heartily.

“Keep the boys away from her, Jethro,” he repeated, laying his hand on

the shoulder of the lad who stood beside him. “It's a good thing Bob's

going off to Harvard this fall. Seems to me I heard about some cutting

up at Andover--eh, Bob?”

Bob grinned, showing a line of very white teeth.

Mr. Merrill took Jethro by the arm and led him off a little distance,

having a message of some importance to give him, the purport of which

will appear later. And Cynthia and Bob were left face to face. Of course

Bob could have gone on, if he had wished it.

“Don't remember me, do you?” he said.

“I do now,” said Cynthia, looking at him rather timidly through her

lashes. Her face was hot, and she had been, very uncomfortable during

Mr. Merrill's remarks. Furthermore, Bob had not taken his eyes off her.

“I remembered you right away,” he said reproachfully; “I saw you in

front of the house this morning, and you ran away.”

“I didn't runaway,” replied Cynthia, indignantly.

“It looked like it, to me,” said Bob.. “I suppose you were afraid I was

going to give you anther whistle.”

Cynthia bit her lip, and then she laughed. Then she looked around to see

where Jethro was, and discovered that they were alone in front of the

meeting-house. Ephraim and her father had passed on while Mr. Merrill

was talking.

“What's the matter?” asked Bob.

“I'm afraid they've gone,” said Cynthia. “I ought to be going after

them. They'll miss me.”

“Oh, no, they won't,” said Bob, easily, “let's sit down under the tree.

They'll come back.”

Whereupon he sat down under the maple. But Cynthia remained standing,

ready to fly. She had an idea that it was wrong to stay--which made it

all the more delightful.

“Sit down--Cynthia,” said he.

She glanced down at him, startled. He was sitting, with his legs

crossed, looking up at her intently.

“I like that name,” he observed. “I like it better than any girl's name

I know. Do be good-natured and sit down.” And he patted the ground close

beside him.

Shy laughed again. The laugh had in it an exquisite note of shyness,

which he liked.

“Why do you want me to sit down?” she asked suddenly.

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“Can't you talk to me standing up?”

“I suppose I could,” said Bob, “but--I shouldn't be able to say such

nice things to you.”

The corners of her mouth trembled a little.

“And whose loss would that be?” she asked.

Bob Worthington was surprised at this retort, and correspondingly

delighted. He had not expected it in a country storekeeper's daughter,

and he stared at Cynthia so frankly that she blushed again, and

turned away. He was a young man who, it may be surmised, had had some

experience with the other sex at Andover and elsewhere. He had not spent

all of his life in Brampton.

“I've often thought of you since that day when you wouldn't take the

whistle,” he declared. “What are you laughing at?”

“I'm laughing at you,” said Cynthia, leaning against the tree, with her

hands behind her.

“You've been laughing at me ever since you've stood there,” he said,

aggrieved that his declarations should not betaken more seriously.

“What have you thought about me?” she demanded. She was really beginning

to enjoy this episode.

“Well--” he began, and hesitated--and broke down and laughed--Cynthia

laughed with him.

“I can tell you what I didn't think,” said Bob.

“What?” asked Cynthia, falling into the trap.

“I didn't think you'd be so--so good-looking,” said he, quite boldly.

“And I didn't think you'd be so rude,” responded Cynthia. But though she

blushed again, she was not exactly displeased.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” he asked. “Let's go for a

walk.”

“I'm going back to Coniston.”

“Let's go for a walk now,” said he, springing to his feet. “Come on.”

Cynthia looked at him and shook her head smilingly.

“Here's Uncle Jethro--”

“Uncle Jethro!” exclaimed Bob, “is he your uncle?”

“Oh, no, not really. But he's just the same. He's very good to me.”

“I wonder whether he'd mind if I called him Uncle Jethro, too,” said

Bob, and Cynthia laughed at the notion. This young man was certainly

very comical, and very frank. “Good-by,” he said; “I'll come to see you

some day in Coniston.”

CHAPTER XII

That evening, after Cynthia had gone to bed, William Wetherell sat down

at Jonah Winch's desk in the rear of the store to gaze at a blank sheet

of paper until the Muses chose to send him subject matter for his weekly

letter to the Guardian. The window was open, and the cool airs from the

mountain spruces mingled with the odors of corn meal and kerosene and

calico print. Jethro Bass, who had supped with the storekeeper, sat in

the wooden armchair silent, with his head bent. Sometimes he would sit

there by the hour while Wetherell wrote or read, and take his departure

when he was so moved without saying good night. Presently Jethro lifted

his chin, and dropped it again; there was a sound of wheels without,

and, after an interval, a knock at the door.

William Wetherell dropped his pen with a start of surprise, as it was

late for a visitor in Coniston. He glanced at Jethro, who did not move,

and then he went to the door and shot back the great forged bolt of

it, and stared out. On the edge of the porch stood a tallish man in a

double-breasted frock coat.

“Mr. Worthington!” exclaimed the storekeeper.

Mr. Worthington coughed and pulled at one of his mutton-chop whiskers,

and seemed about to step off the porch again. It was, indeed, the

first citizen and reformer of Brampton. No wonder William Wetherell was

mystified.

“Can I do anything for you?” he asked. “Have you missed your way?”

Wetherell thought he heard him muttering, “No, no,” and then he was

startled by another voice in his ear. It was Jethro who was standing

beside him.

“G-guess he hain't missed his way a great deal. Er--come in--come in.”

Mr. Worthington took a couple of steps forward.

“I understood that you were to be alone,” he remarked, addressing Jethro

with an attempted severity of manner.

“Didn't say so--d-didn't say so, did I?” answered Jethro.

“Very well,” said Mr. Worthington, “any other time will do for this

little matter.”

“Er--good night,” said Jethro, shortly, and there was the suspicion of

a gleam in his eye as Mr. Worthington turned away. The mill-owner,

in fact, did not get any farther than the edge of the porch before he

wheeled again.

“The affair which I have to discuss with you is of a private nature, Mr.

Bass,” he said.

“So I callated,” said Jethro.

“You may have the place to yourselves, gentlemen,” Wetherell put in

uneasily, and then Mr. Worthington came as far as the door, where he

stood looking at the storekeeper with scant friendliness. Jethro turned

to Wetherell.

“You a politician, Will?” he demanded.

“No,” said Wetherell.

“You a business man?”

“No,” he said again.

“You ever tell folks what you hear other people say?”

“Certainly not,” the storekeeper answered; “I'm not interested in other

people's business.”

“Exactly,” said Jethro. “Guess you'd better stay.”

“But I don't care to stay,” Wetherell objected.

“Stay to oblige me--stay to oblige me?” he asked.

“Well, yes, if you put it that way,” Wetherell said, beginning to get

some amusement out of the situation.

He did not know what Jethro's object was in this matter; perhaps others

may guess.

Mr. Worthington, who had stood by with ill-disguised impatience during

this colloquy, note broke in.

“It is most unusual, Mr. Bass, to have a third person present at a

conference in which he has no manner of concern. I think on the whole,

since you have insisted upon my coming to you--”

“H-hain't insisted that I know of,” said Jethro.

“Well,” said Mr. Worthington, “never mind that.

“Perhaps it would be better for me to come to you some other time, when

you are alone.”

In the meantime Wetherell had shut the door, and they had gradually

walked to the rear of the store. Jethro parted his coat tails, and sat

down again in the armchair. Wetherell, not wishing to be intrusive, went

to his desk again, leaving the first citizen standing among the barrels.

“W-what other time?” Jethro asked.

“Any other time,” said Mr. Worthington.

“What other time?”

“To-morrow night?” suggested Mr. Worthington, striving to hide his

annoyance.

“B-busy to-morrow night,” said Jethro.

“You know that what I have to talk to you about is of the utmost

importance,” said Worthington. “Let us say Saturday night.”

“B-busy Saturday night,” said Jethro. “Meet you to-morrow.”

“What time?”

“Noon,” said Jethro, “noon.”

“Where?” asked Mr. Worthington, dubiously.

“Band stand in Brampton Street,” said Jethro, and the storekeeper was

fain to bend over his desk to conceal his laughter, busying himself with

his books. Mr. Worthington sat down with as much dignity as he could

muster on one of Jonah's old chairs, and Jonah Winch's clock ticked and

ticked, and Wetherell's pen scratched and scratched on his weekly

letter to Mr. Willard, although he knew that he was writing the sheerest

nonsense. As a matter of fact, he tore up the sheets the next morning

without reading them. Mr. Worthington unbuttoned his coat, fumbled in

his pocket, and pulled out two cigars, one of which he pushed toward

Jethro, who shook his head. Mr. Worthington lighted his cigar and

cleared his throat.

“Perhaps you have observed, Mr. Bass,” he said, “that this is a rapidly

growing section of the state--that the people hereabouts are every day

demanding modern and efficient means of communication with the outside

world.”

“Struck you as a mill owner, has it?” said Jethro.

“I do not care to emphasize my private interests,” answered Mr.

Worthington, at last appearing to get into his stride again. “I wish to

put the matter on broader grounds. Men like you and me ought not to be

so much concerned with our own affairs as with those of the population

amongst whom we live. And I think I am justified in putting it to you on

these grounds.”

“H-have to be justified, do you--have to be justified?” Jethro inquired.

“Er--why?”

This was a poser, and for a moment he stared at Jethro, blankly, until

he decided how to take it. Then he crossed his legs and blew smoke

toward the ceiling.

“It is certainly fairer to everybody to take the broadest view of a

situation,” he remarked; “I am trying to regard this from the aspect of

a citizen, and I am quite sure that it will appeal to you in the same

light. If the spirit which imbued the founders of this nation means

anything, Mr. Bass, it means that the able men who are given a chance

to rise by their own efforts must still retain the duties and

responsibilities of the humblest citizens. That, I take it, is our

position, Mr. Bass,--yours and mine.”

Mr. Worthington had uncrossed his legs, and was now by the inspiration

of his words impelled to an upright position. Suddenly he glanced at

Jethro, and started for Jethro had sunk down on the small of his back,

his chin on his chest, in an attitude of lassitude if not of oblivion.

There was a silence perhaps a little disconcerting for Mr. Worthington,

who chose the opportunity to relight his cigar.

“G-got through?” said Jethro, without moving, “g-got through?”

“Through?” echoed Mr. Worthington, “through what?”

“T-through Sunday-school,” said Jethro.

Worthington dropped his match and stamped on it, and Wetherell began

to wonder how much the man would stand. It suddenly came over the

storekeeper that the predicament in which Mr. Worthington found himself

whatever it was--must be a very desperate one. He half rose in his

chair, sat down again, and lighted another match.

“Er--director in the Truro Road, hain't you, Mr. Worthington?” asked

Jethro, without looking at him.

“Yes.”

“Er--principal stockholder--ain't you?”

“Yes--but that is neither here nor there, sir.”

“Road don't pay--r-road don't pay, does it?”

“It certainly does not.”

“W-would pay if it went to Brampton and Harwich?”

“Mr. Bass, the company consider that they are pledged to the people of

this section to get the road through. I am not prepared to say whether

the road would pay, but it is quite likely that it would not.”

“Ch-charitable organization?” said Jethro, from the depths of his chair.

“The pioneers in such matters take enormous risks for the benefit of the

community, sir. We believe that we are entitled to a franchise, and in

my opinion the General Court are behaving disgracefully in refusing

us one. I will not say all I think about that affair, Mr. Bass. I am

convinced that influences are at work--” He broke off with a catch in

his throat.

“T-tried to get a franchise, did you?”

“I am not here to quibble with you, Mr. Bass. We tried to get it by

every legitimate means, and failed, and you know it as well as I do.”

“Er--Heth Sutton didn't sign his receipt--er--did he?”

The storekeeper, not being a politician, was not aware that the somewhat

obscure reference of Jethro's to the Speaker of the House concerned

an application which Mr. Worthington was supposed to have made to that

gentleman, who had at length acknowledged his inability to oblige,

and had advised Mr. Worthington to go to headquarters. And Mr. Stephen

Merrill, who had come to Brampton out of the kindness of his heart, had

only arranged this meeting in a conversation with Jethro that day, after

the reform speech.

Mr. Worthington sprang to his feet, and flung out a hand toward Jethro.

“Prove your insinuations, air,” he cried; “I defy you to prove your

insinuations.”

But Jethro still sat unmoved.

“H-Heth in the charitable organization, too?” he asked.

“People told me I was a fool to believe in honesty, but I thought better

of the lawmakers of my state. I'll tell you plainly what they said to

me, sir. They said, 'Go to Jethro Bass.'”

“Well, so you have, hain't you? So you have.”

“Yes, I have. I've come to appeal to you in behalf of the people of your

section to allow that franchise to go through the present Legislature.”

“Er--come to appeal, have you--come to appeal?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Worthington, sitting down again; “I have come to-night

to appeal to you in the name of the farmers and merchants of this

region--your neighbors,--to use your influence to get that franchise. I

have come to you with the conviction that I shall not have appealed in

vain.”

“Er--appealed to Heth in the name of the farmers and merchants?”

“Mr. Sutton is Speaker of the House.”

“F-farmers and merchants elected him,” remarked Jethro, as though

stating a fact.

Worthington coughed.

“It is probable that I made a mistake in going to Sutton,” he admitted.

“If I w-wanted to catch a pike, w-wouldn't use a pin-hook.”

“I might have known,” remarked Worthington, after a pause, “that Sutton

could not have been elected Speaker without your influence.”

Jethro did not answer that, but still remained sunk in his chair. To all

appearances he might have been asleep.

“W-worth somethin' to the farmers and merchants to get that road

through--w-worth somethin', ain't it?”

Wetherell held his breath. For a moment Mr. Worthington sat very still,

his face drawn, and then he wet his lips and rose slowly.

“We may as well end this conversation, Mr. Bass,” he said, and though

he tried to speak firmly his voice shook, “it seems to be useless. Good

night.”

He picked up his hat and walked slowly toward the door, but Jethro did

not move or speak. Mr. Worthington reached the door opened it, and the

night breeze started the lamp to smoking. Wetherell got up and turned it

down, and the first citizen was still standing in the doorway. His back

was toward them, but the fingers of his left hand--working convulsively

caught Wetherell's eye and held it; save for the ticking of the clock

and the chirping of the crickets in the grass, there was silence. Then

Mr. Worthington closed the door softly, hesitated, turned, and came back

and stood before Jethro.

“Mr. Bass,” he said, “we've got to have that franchise.”

William Wetherell glanced at the countryman who, without moving in

his chair, without raising his voice, had brought the first citizen of

Brampton to his knees. The thing frightened the storekeeper, revolted

him, and yet its drama held him fascinated. By some subtle process which

he had actually beheld, but could not fathom, this cold Mr. Worthington,

this bank president who had given him sage advice, this preacher of

political purity, had been reduced to a frenzied supplicant. He stood

bending over Jethro.

“What's your price? Name it, for God's sake.”

“B-better wait till you get the bill--hadn't you? b-better wait till you

get the bill.”

“Will you put the franchise through?”

“Goin' down to the capital soon?” Jethro inquired.

“I'm going down on Thursday.”

“B-better come in and see me,” said Jethro.

“Very well,” answered Mr. Worthington; “I'll be in at two o'clock on

Thursday.” And then, without another word to either of them, he swung on

his heel and strode quickly out of the store. Jethro did not move.

William Wetherell's hand was trembling so that he could not write,

and he could not trust his voice to speak. Although Jethro had never

mentioned Isaac Worthington's name to him, Wetherell knew that Jethro

hated the first citizen of Brampton.

At length, when the sound of the wheels had died away, Jethro broke the

silence.

“Er--didn't laugh--did he, Will? Didn't laugh once--did he?”

“Laugh!” echoed the storekeeper, who himself had never been further from

laughter in his life.

“M-might have let him off easier if he'd laughed,” said Jethro, “if he'd

laughed just once, m-might have let him off easier.”

And with this remark he went out of the store and left Wetherell alone.

CHAPTER XIII

The weekly letter to the Newcastle Guardian was not finished that night,

but Coniston slept, peacefully, unaware of Mr. Worthington's visit; and

never, indeed, discovered it, since the historian for various reasons

of his own did not see fit to insert the event in his plan of the Town

History. Before another sun had set Jethro Bass had departed for the

state capital, not choosing to remain to superintend the haying of the

many farms which had fallen into his hand,--a most unusual omission for

him.

Presently rumors of a mighty issue about the Truro Railroad began to

be discussed by the politicians at the Coniston store, and Jake

Wheeler held himself in instant readiness to answer a summons to the

capital--which never came.

Delegations from Brampton and Harwich went to petition the Legislature

for the franchise, and the Brampton Clarion and Harwich Sentinel

declared that the people of Truro County recognized in Isaac Worthington

a great and public-spirited man, who ought by all means to be the next

governor--if the franchise went through.

One evening Lem Hallowell, after depositing a box of trimmings at

Ephraim Prescott's harness shop, drove up to the platform of the store

with the remark that “things were gittin' pretty hot down to the capital

in that franchise fight.”

“Hain't you b'en sent for yet, Jake?” he cried, throwing his reins over

the backs of his sweating Morgans; “well, that's strange. Guess the

fight hain't as hot as we hear about. Jethro hain't had to call out his

best men.”

“I'm a-goin' down if there's trouble,” declared Jake, who consistently

ignored banter.

“Better git up and git,” said Lem; “there's three out of the five

railroads against Truro, and Steve Merrill layin' low. Bije Bixby's

down there, and Heth Sutton, and Abner Parkinson, and all the big bugs.

Better get aboard, Jake.”

At this moment the discussion was interrupted by the sight of Cynthia

Wetherell coming across the green with an open letter in her hand.

“It's a message from Uncle Jethro,” she said.

The announcement was sufficient to warrant the sensation it produced on

all sides.

“'Tain't a letter from Jethro, is it?” exclaimed Sam Price, overcome by

a pardonable curiosity. For it was well known that one of Jethro's fixed

principles in life was embodied in his own motto, “Don't write--send.”

“It's very funny,” answered Cynthia, looking down at the paper with a

puzzled expression. “'Dear Cynthia: Judge Bass wished me to say to you

that he would be pleased if you and Will would come to the capital and

spend a week with him at the Pelican House, and see the sights. The

judge says Rias Richardson will tend store. Yours truly, P. Hartington.'

That's all,” said Cynthia, looking up.

For a moment you could have heard a pine needle drop on the stoop. Then

Rias thrust his hands in his pockets and voiced the general sentiment.

“Well, I'll be--goldurned!” said he.

“Didn't say nothin' about Jake?” queried Lem.

“No,” answered Cynthia, “that's all--except two pieces of cardboard with

something about the Truro Railroad and our names. I don't know what they

are.” And she took them from the envelope.

“Guess I could tell you if I was pressed,” said Lem, amid a shout of

merriment from the group.

“Air you goin', Will?” said Sam Price, pausing with his foot on the step

of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.

“Godfrey, Will,” exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, “you hain't a-goin' to

throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?” The mere

possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.

Those who are familiar with that delightful French song which treats of

the leave-taking of one Monsieur Dumollet will appreciate, perhaps, the

attentions which were showered upon William Wetherell and Cynthia upon

their departure for the capital next morning. Although Mr. Wetherell

had at one time been actually a resident of Boston, he received quite as

many cautions from his neighbors as Monsieur Dumollet. Billets doux and

pistols were, of course, not mentioned, but it certainly behooved him,

when he should have arrived at that place of intrigues, to be on the

lookout for cabals.

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.

“Your rooms are ready, Judge,” he said.

As they started for the stairs, Jethro and Cynthia leading the way,

Wetherell felt a touch on his elbow and turned to confront Mr. Bijah

Bixby--at very close range, as usual.

“C-come down at last, Will?” he said. “Thought ye would. Need everybody

this time--you understand.”

“I came on pleasure,” retorted Mr. Wetherell, somewhat angrily.

Mr. Bixby appeared hugely to enjoy the joke.

“So I callated,” he cried, still holding Wetherell's hand in a mild, but

persuasive grip. “So I callated. Guess I done you an injustice, Will.”

“How's that?”

“You're a leetle mite smarter than I thought you was. So long. Got a

leetle business now--you understand a leetle business.”

Was it possible, indeed, for the simple-minded to come to the capital

and not become involved in cabals? With some misgivings William

Wetherell watched Mr. Bixby disappear among the throng, kicking up his

heels behind, and then went upstairs. On the first floor Cynthia was

standing by an open door.

“Dad,” she cried, “come and see the rooms Uncle Jethro's got for us!”

She took Wetherell's hand and led him in. “See the lace curtains, and

the chandelier, and the big bureau with the marble top.”

Jethro had parted his coat tails and seated himself enjoyably on the

bed.

“D-don't come often,” he said, “m-might as well have the best.”

“Jethro,” said Wetherell, coughing nervously and fumbling in the pocket

of his coat, “you've been very kind to us, and we hardly know how to

thank you. I--I didn't have any use for these.”

He held out the pieces of cardboard which had come in Cynthia's letter.

He dared not look at Jethro, and his eye was fixed instead upon the

somewhat grandiose signature of Isaac D. Worthington, which they bore.

Jethro took them and tore them up, and slowly tossed the pieces into

a cuspidor conveniently situated near the foot of the bed. He rose and

thrust his hands into his pockets.

“Er--when you get freshened up, come into Number 7,” he said.

Number 7! But we shall come to that later. Supper first, in a great

pillared dining room filled with notables, if we only had the key.

Jethro sits silent at the head of the table eating his crackers and

milk, with Cynthia on his left and William Wetherell on his right.

Poor William, greatly embarrassed by his sudden projection into the

limelight, is helpless in the clutches of a lady-waitress who is

demanding somewhat fiercely that he make an immediate choice from a list

of dishes which she is shooting at him with astonishing rapidity. But

who is this, sitting beside him, who comes to William's rescue, and

demands that the lady repeat the bill of fare? Surely a notable, for he

has a generous presence, and jet-black whiskers which catch the light,

which give the gentleman, as Mr. Bixby remarked, “quite a settin'.”

Yes, we have met him at last. It is none other than the Honorable Heth

Sutton, Rajah of Clovelly, Speaker of the House, who has condescended to

help Mr. Wetherell.

His chamberlain, Mr. Bijah Bixby, sits on the other side of the

Honorable Heth, and performs the presentation of Mr. Wetherell. But

Mr. Sutton, as becomes a man of high position, says little after he

has rebuked the waitress, and presently departs with a carefully chosen

toothpick; whereupon Mr. Bixby moves into the vacant seat--not to Mr.

Wetherell's unqualified delight.

“I've knowed him ever sense we was boys,” said Mr. Bixby; “you saw how

intimate we was. When he wants a thing done, he says, 'Bije, you go

out and get 'em.' Never counts the cost. He was nice to you--wahn't he,

Will?” And then Mr. Bixby leaned over and whispered in Mr. Wetherell's

ear; “He knows--you understand--he knows.”

“Knows what?” demanded Mr. Wetherell.

Mr. Bixby gave him another admiring look.

“Knows you didn't come down here with Jethro jest to see the sights.”

At this instant the talk in the dining room fell flat, and looking up

William Wetherell perceived a portly, rubicund man of middle age

being shown to his seat by the headwaiter. The gentleman wore a great,

glittering diamond in his shirt, and a watch chain that contained much

fine gold. But the real cause of the silence was plainly in the young

woman who walked beside him, and whose effective entrance argued no

little practice and experience. She was of a type that catches the eye

involuntarily and holds it,--tall, well-rounded, fresh-complexioned,

with heavy coils of shimmering gold hair. Her pawn, which was far

from unbecoming, was in keeping with those gifts with which nature had

endowed her. She carried her head high, and bestowed swift and evidently

fatal glances to right and left during her progress through the room.

Mr. Bixby's voice roused the storekeeper from this contemplation of the

beauty.

“That's Alvy Hopkins of Gosport and his daughter. Fine gal, hain't she?

Ever sense she come down here t'other day she's stirred up more turmoil

than any railroad bill I ever seed. She was most suffocated at the

governor's ball with fellers tryin' to get dances--some of 'em old

fellers, too. And you understand about Alvy?”

“What about him?”

“Alvy says he's a-goin' to be the next governor, or fail up.” Mr.

Bixby's voice sank to a whisper, and he spoke into Mr. Wetherell's ear.

“Alvy says he has twenty-five thousand dollars to put in if necessary.

I'll introduce you to him, Will,” he added meaningly. “Guess you can

help him some--you understand?”

“Mr. Bixby!” cried Mr. Wetherell, putting down his knife and fork.

“There!” said Mr. Bixby, reassuringly; “'twon't be no bother. I know him

as well as I do you--call each other by our given names. Guess I was the

first man he sent for last spring. He knows I go through all them river

towns. He says, 'Bije, you get 'em.' I understood.”

William Wetherell began to realize the futility of trying to convince

Mr. Bixby of his innocence in political matters, and glanced at Jethro.

“You wouldn't think he was listenin', would you, Will?” Mr. Bixby

remarked.

“Listening?”

“Ears are sharp as a dog's. Callate he kin hear as far as the governor's

table, and he don't look as if he knows anything. One way he built up

his power--listenin' when they're talkin' sly out there in the rotunda.

They're almighty surprised when they l'arn he knows what they're up to.

Guess you understand how to go along by quiet and listen when they're

talkin' sly.”

“I never did such a thing in my life,” cried William Wetherell,

indignantly aghast.

But Mr. Bixby winked.

“So long, Will,” he said, “see you in Number 7.”

Never, since the days of Pompadour and Du Barry, until modern American

politics were invented, has a state been ruled from such a place as

Number 7 in the Pelican House--familiarly known as the Throne Room. In

this historic cabinet there were five chairs, a marble-topped table,

a pitcher of iced water, a bureau, a box of cigars and a Bible, a

chandelier with all the gas jets burning, and a bed, whereon sat such

dignitaries as obtained an audience,--railroad presidents, governors and

ex-governors and prospective governors, the Speaker, the President of

the Senate, Bijah Bixby, Peleg Hartington, mighty chiefs from the North

Country, and lieutenants from other parts of the state. These sat on the

bed by preference. Jethro sat in a chair by the window, and never took

any part in the discussions that raged, but listened. Generally there

was some one seated beside him who talked persistently in his ear; as at

present, for instance, Mr. Chauncey Weed, Chairman of the Committee on

Corporations of the House, who took the additional precaution of putting

his hand to his mouth when he spoke.

Mr. Stephen Merrill was in the Throne Room that evening, and

confidentially explained to the bewildered William Wetherell the exact

situation in the Truro Franchise fight. Inasmuch as it has become our

duty to describe this celebrated conflict,--in a popular and engaging

manner, if possible,--we shall have to do so through Mr. Wetherell's

eyes, and on his responsibility. The biographies of some of

the gentlemen concerned have since been published, and for some

unaccountable reason contain no mention of the Truro franchise.

“All Gaul,” said Mr. Merrill--he was speaking to a literary man--“all

Gaul is divided into five railroads. I am one, the Grand Gulf and

Northern, the impecunious one. That is the reason I'm so nice to

everybody, Mr. Wetherell. The other day a conductor on my road had

a shock of paralysis when a man paid his fare. Then there's Batch,

president of the 'Down East' road, as we call it. Batch and I are out

of this fight,--we don't care whether Isaac D. Worthington gets his

franchise or not, or I wouldn't be telling you this. The two railroads

which don't want him to get it, because the Truro would eventually

become a competitor with them, are the Central and the Northwestern.

Alexander Duncan is president of the Central.”

“Alexander Duncan!” exclaimed Wetherell. “He's the richest man in the

state, isn't he?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Merrill, “and he lives in a big square house right here

in the capital. He ain't a bad fellow, Duncan. You'd like him. He loves

books. I wish you could see his library.”

“I'm afraid there's not much chance of that,” answered Wetherell.

“Well, as I say, there's Duncan, of the Central, and the other is

Lovejoy, of the Northwestern. Lovejoy's a bachelor and a skinflint.

Those two, Duncan and Lovejoy, are using every means in their power

to prevent Worthington from getting that franchise. Have I made myself

clear?”

“Do you think Mr. Worthington will get it?” asked Wetherell, who had in

mind a certain nocturnal visit at his store.

Mr. Merrill almost leaped out of his chair at the question. Then he

mopped his face, and winked very deliberately at the storekeeper. Then

Mr. Merrill laughed.

“Well, well,” he said, “for a man who comes down here to stay with

Jethro Bass to ask me that!” Whereupon Mr. Wetherell flushed, and began

to perspire himself. “Didn't you hear Isaac D. Worthington's virtuous

appeal to the people at Brampton?” said Mr. Merrill.

“Yes,” replied Wetherell, getting redder.

“I like you, Will,” said Mr. Merrill, unexpectedly, “darned if I don't.

I'll tell you what I know about it, and you can have a little fun while

you're here, lookin' on, only it won't do to write about it to the

Newcastle Guardian. Guess Willard wouldn't publish it, anyhow. I

suppose you know that Jethro pulls the strings, end we little railroad

presidents dance. We're the puppets now, but after a while, when I'm

crowded out, all these little railroads will get together and

there'll be a row worth looking at, or I'm mistaken. But to go back to

Worthington,” continued Mr. Merrill, “he made a little mistake with

his bill in the beginning. Instead of going to Jethro, he went to Heth

Sutton, and Heth got the bill as far as the Committee on Corporations,

and there she's been ever since, with our friend Chauncey Weed, who's

whispering over there.”

“Mr. Sutton couldn't even get it out of the Committee!” exclaimed

Wetherell.

“Not an inch. Jethro saw this thing coming about a year ago, and he took

the precaution to have Chauncey Weed and the rest of the Committee in

his pocket--and of course Heth Sutton's always been there.”

William Wetherell thought of that imposing and manly personage, the

Honorable Heth Sutton, being in Jethro's pocket, and marvelled.

Mr. Chauncey Weed seemed of a species better able to thrive in the

atmosphere of pockets.

“Well, as I say, there was the Truro Franchise Bill sound asleep in the

Committee, and when Isaac D. Worthington saw that his little arrangement

with Heth Sutton wasn't any good, and that the people of the state

didn't have anything more to say about it than the Crow Indians, and

that the end of the session was getting nearer and nearer, he got

desperate and went to Jethro, I suppose. You know as well as I do that

Jethro has agreed to put the bill through.”

“Then why doesn't he get the Committee to report it and put it through?”

asked Wetherell.

“Bless your simple literary nature,” exclaimed Mr Merrill, “Jethro's

got more power than any man in the state, but that isn't saying that he

doesn't have to fight occasionally. He has to fight now. He has seven

of the twelve senators hitched, and the governor. But Duncan and Lovejoy

have bought up all the loose blocks of representatives, and it is

supposed that the franchise forces only control a quorum. The end of the

session is a week off, and never in all my experience have I seen a more

praiseworthy attendance on the part of members.”

“Do you mean that they are being paid to remain in their seats?” cried

the amazed Mr. Wetherell.

“Well,” answered Mr. Merrill, with a twinkle in his eye, “that is a

little bald and--and unparliamentary, perhaps, but fairly accurate. Our

friend Jethro is confronted with a problem to tax even his faculties,

and to look at him, a man wouldn't suspect he had a care in the world.”

Jethro was apparently quite as free from anxiety the next morning when

he offered, after breakfast, to show Wetherell and Cynthia the sights of

the town, though Wetherell could not but think that the Throne Room and

the Truro Franchise Bill were left at a very crucial moment to take care

of themselves. Jethro talked to Cynthia--or rather, Cynthia talked to

Jethro upon innumerable subject's; they looked upon the statue of a

great statesman in the park, and Cynthia read aloud the quotation graven

on the rock of the pedestal, “The People's Government, made for the

People, made by the People, and answerable to the People.” After that

they went into the state library, where Wetherell was introduced to the

librarian, Mr. Storrow. They did not go into the State House because, as

everybody knows, Jethro Bass never went there. Mr. Bijah Bixby and other

lieutenants might be seen in the lobbies, and the governor might sign

bills in his own apartment there, but the real seat of government was

that Throne Room into which we have been permitted to enter.

They walked out beyond the outskirts of the town, where there was a

grove or picnic ground which was also used as a park by some of the

inhabitants. Jethro liked the spot, and was in the habit sometimes of

taking refuge there when the atmosphere of the Pelican House became too

thick. The three of them had sat down on one of the board benches to

rest, when presently two people were seen at a little distance walking

among the trees, and the sight of them, for some reason, seemed to give

Jethro infinite pleasure.

“Why,” exclaimed Cynthia, “one of them is that horrid girl everybody was

looking at in the dining room last night.”

“D-don't like her, Cynthy?” said Jethro.

“No,” said Cynthia, “I don't.”

“Pretty--hain't she--pretty?”

“She's brazen,” declared Cynthia.

It was, indeed, Miss Cassandra Hopkins, daughter of that Honorable Alva

who--according to Mr. Bixby was all ready with a certain sum of money to

be the next governor. Miss Cassandra was arrayed fluffily in cool, pink

lawn, and she carried a fringed parasol, and she was gazing upward with

telling effect into the face of the gentleman by her side. This

would have all been very romantic if the gentleman had been young and

handsome, but he was certainly not a man to sweep a young girl off

her feet. He was tall, angular, though broad-shouldered, with a long,

scrawny neck that rose out of a very low collar, and a large head,

scantily covered with hair--a head that gave a physical as well as a

mental effect of hardness. His smooth-shaven face seemed to bear witness

that its owner was one who had pushed frugality to the borders of a

vice. It was not a pleasant face, but now it wore an almost benign

expression under the influence of Miss Cassandra's eyes. So intent,

apparently, were both of them upon each other that they did not notice

the group on the bench at the other side of the grove. William Wetherell

ventured to ask Jethro who the man was.

“N-name's Lovejoy,” said Jethro.

“Lovejoy!” ejaculated the storekeeper, thinking of what Mr. Merrill had

told him of the opponents of the Truro Franchise Bill. “President of the

'Northwestern' Railroad?”

Jethro gave his friend a shrewd look.

“G-gettin' posted--hain't you, Will?” he said.

“Is she going to marry that old man?” asked Cynthia.

Jethro smiled a little. “G-guess not,” said he, “g-guess not, if the old

man can help it. Nobody's married him yet, and hain't likely to.”

Jethro was unusually silent on the way back to the hotel, but he did

not seem to be worried or displeased. He only broke his silence once,

in fact, when Cynthia called his attention to a large poster of some

bloodhounds on a fence, announcing the fact in red letters that “Uncle

Tom's Cabin” would be given by a certain travelling company at the Opera

House the next evening.

“L-like to go, Cynthy?”

“Oh, Uncle Jethro, do you think we can go?”

“Never b'en to a show--hev you--never b'en to a show?”

“Never in my life,” said Cynthia.

“We'll all go,” said Jethro, and he repeated it once or twice as they

came to Main Street, seemingly greatly tickled at the prospect. And

there was the Truro Franchise Bill hanging over him, with only a week

left of the session, and Lovejoy's and Duncan's men sitting so tight in

their seats! William Wetherell could not understand it.

CHAPTER XIV

Half an hour later, when Mr. Wetherell knocked timidly at Number

7,--drawn thither by an irresistible curiosity,--the door was opened by

a portly person who wore a shining silk hat and ample gold watch chain.

The gentleman had, in fact, just arrived; but he seemed perfectly at

home as he laid down his hat on the marble-topped bureau, mopped his

face, took a glass of iced water at a gulp, chose a cigar, and sank

down gradually on the bed. Mr. Wetherell recognized him instantly as the

father of the celebrated Cassandra.

“Well, Jethro,” said the gentleman, “I've got to come into the Throne

Room once a day anyhow, just to make sure you don't forget me--eh?”

“A-Alvy,” said Jethro, “I want you to shake hands with a particular

friend of mine, Mr. Will Wetherell of Coniston. Er--Will, the Honorable

Alvy Hopkins of Gosport.”

Mr. Hopkins rose from the bed as gradually as he had sunk down upon it,

and seized Mr. Wetherell's hand impressively. His own was very moist.

“Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell,” he said heartily. “If Jethro

calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess. It means

something to me, anyhow.”

“Will hain't a politician,” said Jethro. “Er--Alvy?”

“Hello!” said Mr. Hopkins.

“Er--Will don't talk.”

“If Jethro had been real tactful,” said the Honorable Alvy, sinking

down again, “he'd have introduced me as the next governor of the state.

Everybody knows I want to be governor, everybody knows I've got twenty

thousand dollars in the bank to pay for that privilege. Everybody knows

I'm going to be governor if Jethro says so.”

William Wetherell was a little taken aback at this ingenuous statement

of the gentleman from Gosport. He looked out of the window through the

foliage of the park, and his eye was caught by the monument there in

front of the State House, and he thought of the inscription on the base

of it, “The People's Government.” The Honorable Alva had not mentioned

the people--undoubtedly.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherell, twenty thousand dollars.” He sighed. “Time was

when a man could be governor for ten. Those were the good old days--eh,

Jethro?”

“A-Alvy, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin's' comin' to town tomorrow--to-morrow.”

“You don't tell me,” said the Honorable Alva, acquiescing cheerfully

in the change of subject. “We'll go. Pleased to have you, too, Mr.

Wetherell.”

“Alvy,” said Jethro, again, “'Uncle Tom's Cabin' comes to town

to-morrow.”

Mr. Hopkins stopped fanning himself, and glanced at Jethro

questioningly.

“A-Alvy, that give you an idea?” said Jethro, mildly.

Mr. Wetherell looked blank: it gave him no idea whatsoever, except of

little Eva and the bloodhounds. For a few moments the Honorable Alva

appeared to be groping, too, and then his face began to crease into a

smile of comprehension.

“By Godfrey, Jethro, but you are smart.” he exclaimed, with involuntary

tribute; “you mean buy up the theatre?”

“C-callate you'll find it's bought up.”

“You mean pay for it?” said Mr. Hopkins.

“You've guessed it, Alvy, you've guessed it.”

Mr. Hopkins gazed at him in admiration, leaned out of the perpendicular,

and promptly drew from his trousers' pocket a roll of stupendous

proportions. Wetting his thumb, he began to push aside the top bills.

“How much is it?” he demanded.

But Jethro put up his hand.

“No hurry, Alvy--n-no hurry. H-Honorable Alvy Hopkins of

Gosport--p-patron of the theatre. Hain't the first time you've b'en a

patron, Alvy.”

“Jethro,” said Mr. Hopkins, solemnly, putting up his money, “I'm much

obliged to you. I'm free to say I'd never have thought of it. If you

ain't the all-firedest smartest man in America to-day,--I don't except

any, even General Grant,--then I ain't the next governor of this state.”

Whereupon he lapsed into an even more expressive silence, his face still

glowing.

“Er--Alvy,” said Jethro presently, “what's the name of your gal?”

“Well,” said Mr. Hopkins, “I guess you've got me. We did christen her

Lily, but she didn't turn out exactly Lily. She ain't the type,” said

Mr. Hopkins, slowly, not without a note of regret, and lapsed into

silence.

“W-what did you say her name was, Alvy?”

“I guess her name's Cassandra,” said the Honorable Alva.

“C-Cassandry?”

“Well, you see,” he explained a trifle apologetically, “she's kind of

taken some matters in her own hands, my gal. Didn't like Lily, and it

didn't seem to fit her anyway, so she called herself Cassandra. Read

it in a book. It means, 'inspirer of love,' or some such poetry, but I

don't deny that it goes with her better than Lily would.”

“Sh-she's a good deal of a gal, Alvy--fine-appearin' gal, Alvy.”

“Upon my word, Jethro, I didn't know you ever looked at a woman. But I

suppose you couldn't help lookin' at my gal--she does seem to draw men's

eyes as if she was magnetized some way.” Mr. Hopkins did not speak as

though this quality of his daughter gave him unmixed delight. “But she's

a good-hearted gal, Cassy is, high-spirited, and I won't deny she's

handsome and smart.”

“She'll kind of grace my position when I'm governor. But to tell you the

truth, Jethro, one old friend to another, durned if I don't wish she was

married. It's a terrible thing for a father to say, I know, but I'd feel

easier about her if she was married to some good man who could hold her.

There's young Joe Turner in Gosport, he'd give his soul to have her,

and he'd do. Cassy says she's after bigger game than Joe. She's

young--that's her only excuse. Funny thing happened night before last,”

continued Mr. Hopkins, laughing. “Lovejoy saw her, and he's b'en out

of his head ever since. Al must be pretty near my age, ain't he? Well,

there's no fool like an old fool.”

“A-Alvy introduce me to Cassandry sometime will you?”

“Why, certainly,” answered Mr. Hopkins, heartily, “I'll bring her in

here. And now how about gettin' an adjournment to-morrow night for

'Uncle Tom's Cabin'? These night sessions kind of interfere.”

Half an hour later, when the representatives were pouring into the

rotunda for dinner, a crowd was pressing thickly around the desk to read

a placard pinned on the wall above it. The placard announced the coming

of Mr. Glover's Company for the following night, and that the Honorable

Alva Hopkins of Gosport, ex-Speaker of the House, had bought three

hundred and twelve seats for the benefit of the members. And the

Honorable Alva himself, very red in the face and almost smothered, could

be dimly discerned at the foot of the stairs trying to fight his way

out of a group of overenthusiastic friends and admirers. Alva--so it was

said on all sides--was doing the right thing.

So it was that one sensation followed another at the capital, and the

politicians for the moment stopped buzzing over the Truro Franchise Bill

to discuss Mr. Hopkins and his master-stroke. The afternoon Chronicle

waxed enthusiastic on the subject of Mr. Hopkins's generosity, and

predicted that, when Senator Hartington made the motion in the upper

house and Mr. Jameson in the lower, the General Court would unanimously

agree that there would be no evening session on the following day. The

Honorable Alva was the hero of the hour.

That afternoon Cynthia and her father walked through the green park to

make their first visit to the State House. They stood hand in hand on

the cool, marble-paved floor of the corridor, gazing silently at the

stained and battered battle-flags behind the glass, and Wetherell seemed

to be listening again to the appeal of a great President to a great

Country in the time of her dire need--the soul calling on the body to

fight for itself. Wetherell seemed to feel again the thrill he felt when

he saw the blue-clad men of this state crowded in the train at Boston:

and to hear again the cheers, and the sobs, and the prayers as he looked

upon the blood that stained stars and stripes alike with a holy stain.

With that blood the country had been consecrated, and the state--yes,

and the building where they stood. So they went on up the stairs,

reverently, nor heeded the noise of those in groups about them, and

through a door into the great hall of the representatives of the state.

Life is a mixture of emotions, a jumble of joy and sorrow and reverence

and mirth and flippancy, of right feeling and heresy. In the morning

William Wetherell had laughed at Mr. Hopkins and the twenty thousand

dollars he had put in the bank to defraud the people; but now he could

have wept over it, and as he looked down upon the three hundred members

of that House, he wondered how many of them represented their neighbors

who supposedly had sent them here--and how many Mr. Lovejoy's railroad,

Mr. Worthington's railroad, or another man's railroad.

But gradually he forgot the battle-flags, and his mood changed. Perhaps

the sight of Mr. Speaker Sutton towering above the House, the very

essence and bulk of authority, brought this about. He aroused in

Wetherell unwilling admiration and envy when he arose to put a question

in his deep voice, or rapped sternly with his gavel to silence the

tumult of voices that arose from time to time; or while some member was

speaking, or the clerk was reading a bill at breathless speed, he

turned with wonderful nonchalance to listen to the conversation of the

gentlemen on the bench beside him, smiled, nodded, pulled his whiskers,

at once conscious and unconscious of his high position. And, most

remarkable of all to the storekeeper, not a man of the three hundred,

however obscure, could rise that the Speaker did not instantly call him

by name.

William Wetherell was occupied by such reflections as these when

suddenly there fell a hush through the House. The clerk had stopped

reading, the Speaker had stopped conversing, and, seizing his gavel,

looked expectantly over the heads of the members and nodded. A sleek,

comfortably dressed mail arose smilingly in the middle of the House, and

subdued laughter rippled from seat to seat as he addressed the chair.

“Mr. Jameson of Wantage.”

Mr. Jameson cleared his throat impressively and looked smilingly about

him.

“Mr. Speaker and gentlemen of the House,” he said, “if I desired to

arouse the enthusiasm--the just enthusiasm--of any gathering in this

House, or in this city, or in this state, I should mention the name of

the Honorable Alva Hopkins of Gosport. I think I am right.”

Mr. Jameson was interrupted, as he no doubt expected, by applause from

floor and gallery. He stood rubbing his hands together, and it seemed to

William Wetherell that the Speaker did not rap as sharply with his gavel

as he had upon other occasions.

“Gentlemen of the House,” continued Mr. Jameson, presently, “the

Honorable Alva Hopkins, whom we all know and love, has with unparalleled

generosity--unparalleled, I say--bought up three hundred and twelve

seats in Fosters Opera House for to-morrow night” (renewed applause),

“in order that every member of this august body may have the opportunity

to witness that most classic of histrionic productions, 'Uncle Tom's

Cabin'.” (Loud applause, causing the Speaker to rap sharply.) “That

we may show a proper appreciation of this compliment--I move you, Mr.

Speaker, that the House adjourn not later than six o'clock to-morrow,

Wednesday evening, not to meet again until Thursday morning.”

Mr. Jameson of Wantage handed the resolution to a page and sat down

amidst renewed applause. Mr. Wetherell noticed that many members turned

in their seats as they clapped, and glancing along the gallery he caught

a flash of red and perceived the radiant Miss Cassandra herself leaning

over the rail, her hands clasped in ecstasy. Mr. Lovejoy was not with

her--he evidently preferred to pay his attentions in private.

“There she is again,” whispered Cynthia, who had taken an instinctive

and extraordinary dislike to Miss Cassandra. Then Mr. Sutton rose

majestically to put the question.

“Gentlemen, are you ready for the question?” he cried. “All those in

favor of the resolution of the gentleman from Wantage, Mr. Jameson--”

the Speaker stopped abruptly. The legislators in the front seats

swung around, and people in the gallery craned forward to see a member

standing at his seat in the extreme rear of the hall. He was a little

man in an ill-fitting coat, his wizened face clean-shaven save for the

broom-shaped beard under his chin, which he now held in his hand. His

thin, nasal voice was somehow absurdly penetrating as he addressed

the chair. Mr. Sutton was apparently, for once, taken by surprise, and

stared a moment, as though racking his brain for the name.

“The gentleman from Suffolk, Mr. Heath,” he said, and smiling a little,

sat down.

The gentleman from Suffolk, still holding on to his beard, pitched in

without preamble.

“We farmers on the back seats don't often get a chance to be heard, Mr.

Speaker,” said he, amidst a general tittering from the front seats. “We

come down here without any l'arnin' of parli'ment'ry law, and before we

know what's happened the session's over, and we hain't said nothin'.”

(More laughter.) “There's b'en a good many times when I wanted to say

somethin', and this time I made up my mind I was a-goin' to--law or no

law.”

(Applause, and a general show of interest in the gentleman from

Suffolk.) “Naow, Mr. Speaker, I hain't ag'in' 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' It's

a good play, and it's done an almighty lot of good. And I hain't sayin'

nothin' ag'in' Alvy Hopkins nor his munificence. But I do know there's a

sight of little bills on that desk that won't be passed if we don't set

to-morrow night--little bills that are big bills for us farmers. That

thar woodchuck bill, for one.” (Laughter.) “My constituents want I

should have that bill passed. We don't need a quorum for them bills, but

we need time. Naow, Mr. Speaker, I say let all them that wants to go and

see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' go and see it, but let a few of us fellers that

has woodchuck bills and other things that we've got to get through come

down here and pass 'em. You kin put 'em on the docket, and I guess if

anything comes along that hain't jest right for everybody, somebody can

challenge a quorum and bust up the session. That's all.”

The gentleman from Suffolk sat down amidst thunderous applause, and

before it died away Mr. Jameson was on his feet, smiling and rubbing his

hands together, and was recognized.

“Mr. Speaker,” he said, as soon as he could be heard, “if the gentleman

from Suffolk desires to pass woodchuck bills” (renewed laughter), “he

can do so as far as I'm concerned. I guess I know where most of the

members of this House will be to-morrow night-” (Cries of 'You're

right', and sharp rapping of the gavel.) “Mr. Speaker, I withdraw my

resolution.”

“The gentleman from Wantage,” said the Speaker, smiling broadly now,

“withdraws his resolution.”

As William Wetherell was returning to the Pelican House, pondering over

this incident, he almost ran into a distinguished-looking man walking

briskly across Main Street.

“It was Mr. Worthington!” said Cynthia, looking after him.

But Mr. Worthington had a worried look on his face, and was probably too

much engrossed in his own thoughts to notice his acquaintances. He had,

in fact, just come from the Throne Room, where he had been to remind

Jethro that the session was almost over, and to ask him what he meant to

do about the Truro Bill. Jethro had given him no satisfaction.

“Duncan and Lovejoy have their people paid to sit there night and day,”

Mr. Worthington had said. “We've got a bare majority on a full House;

but you don't seem to dare to risk it. What are you going to do about

it, Mr. Bass?”

“W-want the bill to pass--don't you?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Worthington had cried, on the edge of losing his

temper.

“L-left it to me--didn't you?

“Yes, but I'm entitled to know what's being done. I'm paying for it.”

“H-hain't paid for it yet--hev you?”

“No, I most assuredly haven't.”

“B-better wait till you do.”

There was very little satisfaction in this, and Mr. Worthington had at

length been compelled to depart, fuming, to the house of his friend the

enemy, Mr. Duncan, there to attempt for the twentieth time to persuade

Mr. Duncan to call off his dogs who were sitting with such praiseworthy

pertinacity in their seats. As the two friends walked on the lawn, Mr.

Worthington tried to explain, likewise for the twentieth time, that

the extension of the Truro Railroad could in no way lessen the Canadian

traffic of the Central, Mr. Duncan's road. But Mr. Duncan could not see

it that way, and stuck to his present ally, Mr. Lovejoy, and refused

point-blank to call off his dogs. Business was business.

It is an apparently inexplicable fact, however, that Mr. Worthington

and his son Bob were guests at the Duncan mansion at the capital. Two

countries may not be allies, but their sovereigns may be friends. In

the present instance, Mr. Duncan and Mr. Worthington's railroads were

opposed, diplomatically, but another year might see the Truro Railroad

and the Central acting as one. And Mr. Worthington had no intention

whatever of sacrificing Mr. Duncan's friendship. The first citizen

of Brampton possessed one quality so essential to greatness--that of

looking into the future, and he believed that the time would come when

an event of some importance might create a perpetual alliance between

himself and Mr. Duncan. In short, Mr. Duncan had a daughter, Janet, and

Mr. Worthington, as we know, had a son. And Mr. Duncan, in addition

to his own fortune, had married one of the richest heiresses in New

England. Prudens futuri, that was Mr. Worthington's motto.

The next morning Cynthia, who was walking about the town alone, found

herself gazing over a picket fence at a great square house with a very

wide cornice that stood by itself in the centre of a shade-flecked lawn.

There were masses of shrubbery here and there, and a greenhouse, and a

latticed summer-house: and Cynthia was wondering what it would be like

to live in a great place like that, when a barouche with two shining

horses in silver harness drove past her and stopped before the gate.

Four or five girls and boys came laughing out on the porch, and one of

them, who held a fishing-rod in his hand, Cynthia recognized. Startled

and ashamed, she began to walk on as fast as she could in the opposite

direction, when she heard the sound of footsteps on the lawn behind her,

and her own name called in a familiar voice. At that she hurried the

faster; but she could not run, and the picket fence was half a block

long, and Bob Worthington had an advantage over her. Of course it was

Bob, and he did not scruple to run, and in a few seconds he was leaning

over the fence in front of her. Now Cynthia was as red as a peony by

this time, and she almost hated him.

“Well, of all people, Cynthia Wetherell!” he cried; “didn't you hear me

calling after you?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia.

“Why didn't you stop?”

“I didn't want to,” said Cynthia, glancing at the distant group on the

porch, who were watching them. Suddenly she turned to him defiantly. “I

didn't know you were in that house, or in the capital,” she said.

“And I didn't know you were,” said Bob, upon whose masculine

intelligence the meaning of her words was entirely lost. “If I had known

it, you can bet I would have looked you up. Where are you staying?”

“At the Pelican House.”

“What!” said Bob, “with all the politicians? How did you happen to go

there?”

“Mr. Bass asked my father and me to come down for a few days,” answered

Cynthia, her color heightening again. Life is full of contrasts, and

Cynthia was becoming aware of some of them.

“Uncle Jethro?” said Bob.

“Yes, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia, smiling in spite of herself. He

always made her smile.

“Uncle Jethro owns the Pelican House,” said Bob.

“Does he? I knew he was a great man, but I didn't know how great he was

until I came down here.”

Cynthia said this so innocently that Bob repented his flippancy on the

spot. He had heard occasional remarks of his elders about Jethro.

“I didn't mean quite that,” he said, growing red in his turn. “Uncle

Jethro--Mr. Bass--is a great man of course. That's what I meant.”

“And he's a very good man,” said Cynthia, who understood now that he had

spoken a little lightly of Jethro, and resented it.

“I'm sure of it,” said Bob, eagerly. Then Cynthia began to walk on,

slowly, and he followed her on the other side of the fence. “Hold on,”

he cried, “I haven't said half the things I want to say--yet.”

“What do you want to say?” asked Cynthia, still walking. “I have to go.”

“Oh, no, you don't! Wait just a minute--won't you?”

Cynthia halted, with apparent unwillingness, and put out her toe between

the pickets. Then she saw that there was a little patch on that toe, and

drew it in again.

“What do you want to say?” she repeated. “I don't believe you have

anything to say at all.” And suddenly she flashed a look at him that

made his heart thump.

“I do--I swear I do!” he protested. “I'm coming down to the Pelican

to-morrow morning to get you to go for a walk.”

Cynthia could not but think that the remoteness of the time he set was

scarce in keeping with his ardent tone.

“I have something else to do to-morrow morning,” she answered.

“Then I'll come to-morrow afternoon,” said Bob, instantly.

“Who lives here?” she asked irrelevantly.

“Mr. Duncan. I'm visiting the Duncans.”

At this moment a carryall joined the carriage at the gate. Cynthia

glanced at the porch again. The group there had gown larger, and they

were still staring. She began to feel uncomfortable again, and moved on

slowly.

“Mayn't I come?” asked Bob, going after her; and scraping the butt of

the rod along the palings.

“Aren't there enough girls here to satisfy you?” asked Cynthia.

“They're enough--yes,” he said, “but none of 'em could hold a candle to

you.”

Cynthia laughed outright.

“I believe you tell them all something like that,” she said.

“I don't do any such thing,” he retorted, and then he laughed himself,

and Cynthia laughed again.

“I like you because you don't swallow everything whole,” said Bob,

“and--well, for a good many other reams.” And he looked into her face

with such frank admiration that Cynthia blushed and turned away.

“I don't believe a word you say,” she answered, and started to walk off,

this time in earnest.

“Hold on,” cried Bob. They were almost at the end of the fence by this,

and the pickets were sharp and rather high, or he would have climbed

them.

Cynthia paused hesitatingly.

“I'll come at two o'clock to-morrow,” said he; “We're going on a picnic

to-day, to Dalton's Bend, on the river. I wish I could get out of it.”

Just then there came a voice from the gateway.

“Bob! Bob Worthington!”

They both turned involuntarily. A slender girl with light brown hair was

standing there, waving at him.

“Who's that?” asked Cynthia.

“That?” said Bob, in some confusion, “oh, that's Janet Duncan.”

“Good-by,” said Cynthia.

“I'm coming to-morrow,” he called after her, but she did not turn. In

a little while she heard the carryall behind her clattering down the

street, its passengers laughing and joking merrily. Her face burned,

for she thought that they were laughing at her; she wished with all

her heart that she had not stopped to talk with him at the palings.

The girls, indeed, were giggling as the carryall passed, and she heard

somebody call out his name, but nevertheless he leaned out of the seat

and waved his hat at her, amid a shout of laughter. Poor Cynthia! She

did not look at him. Tears of vexation were in her eyes, and the light

of her joy at this visit to the capital flickered, and she wished she

were back in Coniston. She thought it would be very nice to be rich, and

to live in a great house in a city, and to go on picnics.

The light flickered, but it did not wholly go out. If it has not been

shown that Cynthia was endowed with a fair amount of sense, many of

these pages have been written in vain. She sat down for a while in the

park and thought of the many things she had to be thankful for--not the

least of which was Jethro's kindness. And she remembered that she was to

see “Uncle Tom's Cabin” that evening.

Such are the joys and sorrows of fifteen!

CHAPTER XV

Mr. Amos Cuthbert named it so--our old friend Amos who lives high up in

the ether of Town's End ridge, and who now represents Coniston in the

Legislature. He is the same silent, sallow person as when Jethro first

took a mortgage on his farm, only his skin is beginning to resemble

dried parchment, and he is a trifle more cantankerous. On the morning of

that memorable day when, “Uncle Tom's Cabin” came to the capital, Amos

had entered the Throne Room and given vent to his feelings in regard to

the gentleman in the back seat who had demanded an evening sitting on

behalf of the farmers.

“Don't that beat all?” cried Amos. “Let them have their darned

woodchuck session; there won't nobody go to it. For cussed, crisscross

contrariness, give me a moss-back Democrat from a one-boss, one-man town

like Suffolk. I'm a-goin' to see the show.”

“G-goin' to the show, be you, Amos?” said Jethro.

“Yes, I be,” answered Amos, bitterly. “I hain't agoin' nigh the house

to-night.” And with this declaration he departed.

“I wonder if he really is going?” queried Mr. Merrill looking at the

ceiling. And then he laughed.

“Why shouldn't he go?” asked William Wetherell.

Mr. Merrill's answer to this question was a wink, whereupon he, too,

departed. And while Wetherell was pondering over the possible meaning of

these words the Honorable Alva Hopkins entered, wreathed in smiles, and

closed the door behind him.

“It's all fixed,” he said, taking a seat near Jethro in the window.

“S-seen your gal--Alvy--seen your gal?”

Mr. Hopkins gave a glance at Wetherell.

“Will don't talk,” said Jethro, and resumed his inspection through the

lace curtains of what was going on in the street.

“Cassandry's, got him to go,” said Mr. Hopkins. “It's all fixed, as sure

as Sunday. If it misses fire, then I'll never mention the governorship

again. But if it don't miss fire,” and the Honorable Alva leaned over

and put his hand on Jethro's knee, “if it don't miss fire, I get the

nomination. Is that right?”

“Y-you've guessed it, Alvy.”

“That's all I want to know,” declared the Honorable Alva; “when you say

that much, you never go back on it. And, you can go ahead and give the

orders, Jethro. I have to see that the boys get the tickets. Cassandry's

got a head on her shoulders, and she kind of wants to be governor, too.”

He got as far as the door, when he turned and bestowed upon Jethro a

glance of undoubted tribute. “You've done a good many smart things,”

said he, “but I guess you never beat this, and never will.”

“H-hain't done it yet, Alvy,” answered Jethro, still looking out through

the window curtains at the ever ganging groups of gentlemen in the

street. These groups had a never ceasing interest for Jethro Bass.

Mr. Wetherell didn't talk, but had he been the most incurable of gossips

he felt that he could have done no damage to this mysterious affair,

whatever it was. In a certain event, Mr. Hopkins was promised the

governorship: so much was plain. And it was also evident that Miss

Cassandra Hopkins was in some way to be instrumental. William Wetherell

did not like to ask Jethro, but he thought a little of sounding Mr.

Merrill, and then he came to the conclusion that it would be wiser for

him not to know.

“Er--Will,” said Jethro, presently, “you know Heth Sutton--Speaker Heth

Sutton?”

“Yes.”

“Er--wouldn't mind askin' him to step in and see me before the

session--if he was comin' by--would you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Er--if he was comin' by,” said Jethro.

Mr. Wetherell found Mr. Speaker Sutton glued to a pillar in the rotunda

below. He had some difficulty in breaking through the throng that

pressed around him, and still more in attracting his attention, as Mr.

Sutton took no manner of notice of the customary form of placing one's

hand under his elbow and pressing gently up. Summoning up his courage,

Mr. Wetherell tried the second method of seizing him by the buttonhole.

He paused in his harangue, one hand uplifted, and turned and glanced at

the storekeeper abstractedly.

“Mr. Bass asked me to tell you to drop into Number 7,” said Wetherell,

and added, remembering express instructions, “if you were going by.”

Wetherell had not anticipated the magical effect this usual message

would have on Mr. Sutton, nor had he thought that so large and dignified

a body would move so rapidly. Before the astonished gentlemen who had

penned him could draw a breath, Mr. Sutton had reached the stairway and,

was mounting it with an agility that did him credit. Five minutes later

Wetherell saw the Speaker descending again, the usually impressive

quality of his face slightly modified by the twitching of a smile.

Thus the day passed, and the gentlemen of the Lovejoy and Duncan

factions sat, as tight as ever in their seats, and the Truro Franchise

bill still slumbered undisturbed in Mr. Chauncey Weed's committee.

At supper there was a decided festal air about the dining room of the

Pelican House, the little band of agricultural gentlemen who wished to

have a session not being patrons of that exclusive hotel. Many of the

Solons had sent home for their wives; that they might do the utmost

justice to the Honorable Alva's hospitality. Even Jethro, as he ate

his crackers and milk, had a new coat with bright brass buttons, and

Cynthia, who wore a fresh gingham which Miss Sukey Kittredge of Coniston

had helped to design, so far relented in deference to Jethro's taste as

to tie a red bow at her throat.

The middle table under the chandelier was the immediate firmament of

Miss Cassandra Hopkins. And there, beside the future governor, sat the

president of the “Northwestern” Railroad, Mr. Lovejoy, as the chief

of the revolving satellites. People began to say that Mr. Lovejoy was

hooked at last, now that he had lost his head in such an unaccountable

fashion as to pay his court in public; and it was very generally known

that he was to make one of the Honorable Alva's immediate party at the

performance of “Uncle Tam's Cabin.”

Mr. Speaker Sutton, of course, would have to forego the pleasure of

the theatre as a penalty of his high position. Mr. Merrill, who sat at

Jethro's table next to Cynthia that evening, did a great deal of

joking with the Honorable Heth about having to preside aver a

woodchuck session, which the Speaker, so Mr. Wetherell thought, took

in astonishingly good part, and seemed very willing to make the great

sacrifice which his duty required of him.

After supper Mr. Wetherell took a seat in the rotunda. As an observer of

human nature, he had begun to find a fascination in watching the group

of politicians there. First of all he encountered Mr. Amos Cuthbert,

his little coal-black eyes burning brightly, and he was looking very

irritable indeed.

“So you're going to the show, Amos?” remarked the storekeeper, with an

attempt at cordiality.

To his bewilderment, Amos turned upon him fiercely.

“Who said I was going to the show?” he snapped.

“You yourself told me.”

“You'd ought to know whether I'm a-goin' or not,” said Amos, and walked

away.

While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort,

a retired, scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore

spectacles, came out of the door leading from the barber shop and

quietly took a seat beside him. The storekeeper's attention was next

distracted by the sight of one who wandered slowly but ceaselessly from

group to group, kicking up his heels behind, and halting always in the

rear of the speakers. Needless to say that this was our friend Mr. Bijah

Bixby, who was following out his celebrated tactics of “going along by

when they were talkin' sly.” Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr.

Wetherell, who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed

both astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to

understand these sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked--Mr. Wetherell was sure

of that. But to his surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet

him.

Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to

go upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with

his hands in his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the

storekeeper, and approached him in his usual hearty manner.

“Well, well, this is fortunate,” said Mr. Merrill; “how are you, Duncan?

I want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter

for the Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is

Mr. Alexander Duncan, president of the 'Central.'”

“How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?” said the scholarly gentleman with the

spectacles, putting out his hand. “I'm glad to meet you, very glad,

indeed. I read your letters with the greatest pleasure.”

Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions

which may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular.

“Funny thing,” Mr. Merrill continued, “I was looking for you, Duncan. It

occurred to me that you would like to meet Mr. Wetherell. I was afraid

you were in Boston.”

“I have just got back,” said Mr. Duncan.

“I wanted Wetherell to see your library. I was telling him about it.”

“I should be delighted to show it to him,” answered Mr. Duncan. That

library, as is well known, was a special weakness of Mr. Duncan's.

Poor William Wetherell, who was quite overwhelmed by the fact that the

great Mr. Duncan had actually read his letters and liked them, could

scarcely utter a sensible word. Almost before he realized what had

happened he was following Mr. Duncan out of the Pelican House, when the

storekeeper was mystified once more by a nudge and another wink from Mr.

Bixby, conveying unbounded admiration.

“Why don't you write a book, Mr. Wetherell?” inquired the railroad

president, when they were crossing the park.

“I don't think I could do it,” said Mr. Wetherell, modestly. Such

incense was overpowering, and he immediately forgot Mr. Bixby.

“Yes, you can,” said Mr. Duncan, “only you don't know it. Take your

letters for a beginning. You can draw people well enough, when you try.

There was your description of the lonely hill-farm on the spur--I shall

always remember that: the gaunt farmer, toiling every minute between sun

and sun; the thin, patient woman bending to a task that never charged or

lightened; the children growing up and leaving one by one, some to the

cities, some to the West, until the old people are left alone in the

evening of life--to the sunsets and the storms. Of course you must write

a book.”

Mr. Duncan quoted other letters, and William Wetherell thrilled. Poor

man! he had had little enough incense in his time, and none at all from

the great. They came to the big square house with the cornice which

Cynthia had seen the day before, and walked across the lawn through the

open door. William Wetherell had a glimpse of a great drawing-room

with high windows, out of which was wafted the sound of a piano and of

youthful voice and laughter, and then he was in the library. The thought

of one man owning all those books overpowered him. There they were, in

stately rows, from the floor to the high ceiling, and a portable ladder

with which to reach them.

Mr. Duncan, understanding perhaps something of the storekeeper's

embarrassment, proceeded to take down his treasures: first editions from

the shelves, and folios and mistrals from drawers in a great iron safe

in one corner and laid them on the mahogany desk. It was the railroad

president's hobby, and could he find an appreciative guest, he was

happy. It need scarcely be said that he found William Wetherell

appreciative, and possessed of knowledge of Shaksperiana and other

matters that astonished his host as well as pleased him. For Wetherell

had found his tongue at last.

After a while Mr. Duncan drew out his watch and gave a start.

“By George!” he exclaimed, “it's after eight o'clock. I'll have to ask

you to excuse me to-night, Mr. Wetherell. I'd like to show you the rest

of them--can't you come around to-morrow afternoon?”

Mr. Wetherell, who had forgotten his own engagement and “Uncle Tom's

Cabin,” said he would be happy to come. And they went out together and

began to walk toward the State House.

“It isn't often I find a man who knows anything at all about these

things,” continued Mr. Duncan, whose heart was quite won. “Why do you

bury yourself in Coniston?”

“I went there from Briton for my health,” said the storekeeper.

“Jethro Bass lives there, doesn't he” said Mr. Duncan, with a laugh. “But

I suppose you don't know anything about politics.”

“I know nothing at all,” said Mr. Wetherell, which was quite true. He

had been in dreamland, but now the fact struck him again, with something

of a shock, that this mild-mannered gentleman was one of those who had

been paying certain legislators to remain in their seats. Wetherell

thought of speaking to Mr. Duncan of his friendship with Jethro Bass,

but the occasion passed.

“I wish to heaven I didn't have to know anything about politics,” Mr.

Duncan was saying; “they disgust me. There's a little matter on now,

about an extension of the Truro Railroad to Harwich, which wouldn't

interest you, but you can't conceive what a nuisance it has been to

watch that House day and night, as I've had to. It's no joke to have

that townsman of yours; Jethro Bass, opposed to you. I won't say

anything against him, for he many be a friend of yours, and I have to

use him sometimes myself.” Mr. Duncan sighed. “It's all very sordid and

annoying. Now this evening, for instance, when we might have enjoyed

ourselves with those books, I've' got to go to the House, just because

some backwoods farmers want to talk about woodchucks. I suppose it's

foolish,” said Mr. Duncan; “but Bass has tricked us so often that I've

got into the habit of being watchful. I should have been here twenty

minutes ago.”

By this time they had come to the entrance of the State House, and

Wetherell followed Mr. Duncan in, to have a look at the woodchuck

session himself. Several members hurried by and up the stairs, some

of them in their Sunday black; and the lobby above seemed, even to the

storekeeper's unpractised eye, a trifle active for a woodchuck session.

Mr. Duncan muttered something, and quickened his gait a little on the

steps that led to the gallery. This place was almost empty. They went

down to the rail, and the railroad president cast his eye over the

House.

“Good God!” he said sharply, “there's almost a quorum here.” He ran his

eye over the members. “There is a quorum here.”

Mr. Duncan stood drumming nervously with his fingers on the rail,

scanning the heads below. The members were scattered far and wide

through the seats, like an army in open order, listening in silence to

the droning voice of the clerk. Moths burned in the gas flames, and June

bugs hummed in at the high windows and tilted against the walls. Then

Mr. Duncan's finger nails whitened as his thin hands clutched the rail,

and a sense of a pending event was upon Wetherell. Slowly he realized

that he was listening to the Speaker's deep voice.

“'The Committee on Corporations, to whom was referred House Bill Number

109, entitled, 'An Act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich, having

considered the same, report the same with the following resolution:

Resolved, that the bill ought to pass. Chauncey Weed, for the

Committee.'”

The Truro Franchise! The lights danced, and even a sudden weakness

came upon the storekeeper. Jethro's trick! The Duncan and Lovejoy

representatives in the theatre, the adherents of the bill here!

Wetherell saw Mr. Duncan beside him, a tense figure leaning on the rail,

calling to some one below. A man darted up the centre, another up the

side aisle. Then Mr. Duncan flashed at William Wetherell from his blue

eye such a look of anger as the storekeeper never forgot, and he, too,

was gone. Tingling and perspiring, Wetherell leaned out over the railing

as the Speaker rapped calmly for order. Hysteric laughter, mingled with

hoarse cries, ran over the House, but the Honorable Heth Sutton did not

even smile.

A dozen members were on their feet shouting to the chair. One was

recognized, and that man Wetherell perceived with amazement to be Mr.

Jameson of Wantage, adherent of Jethro's--he who had moved to adjourn

for “Uncle Tom's Cabin”! A score of members crowded into the aisles, but

the Speaker's voice again rose above the tumult.

“The doorkeepers will close the doors! Mr. Jameson of Wantage moves that

the report of the Committee be accepted, and on this motion a roll-call

is ordered.”

The doorkeepers, who must have been inspired, had already slammed the

doors in the faces of those seeking wildly to escape. The clerk already

had the little, short-legged desk before him and was calling the roll

with incredible rapidity. Bewildered and excited as Wetherell was, and

knowing as little of parliamentary law as the gentleman who had proposed

the woodchuck session, he began to form some sort of a notion of

Jethro's generalship, and he saw that the innocent rural members who

belonged to Duncan and Lovejoy's faction had tried to get away before

the roll-call, destroy the quorum, and so adjourn the House. These,

needless to say, were not parliamentarians, either. They had lacked a

leader, they were stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught, and had

not moved quickly enough. Like trapped animals, they wandered blindly

about for a few moments, and then sank down anywhere. Each answered the

roll-call sullenly, out of necessity, for every one of them was a marked

man. Then Wetherell remembered the two members who had escaped, and Mr.

Duncan, and fell to calculating how long it would take these to reach

Fosters Opera House, break into the middle of an act, and get out enough

partisans to come back and kill the bill. Mr. Wetherell began to wish he

could witness the scene there, too, but something held him here, shaking

with excitement, listening to each name that the clerk called.

Would the people at the theatre get back in time?

Despite William Wetherell's principles, whatever these may have been,

he was so carried away that he found himself with his watch in his hand,

counting off the minutes as the roll-call went on. Fosters Opera House

was some six squares distant, and by a liberal estimate Mr. Duncan and

his advance guard ought to get back within twenty minutes of the time he

left. Wetherell was not aware that people were coming into the gallery

behind him; he was not aware that one sat at his elbow until a familiar

voice spoke, directly into his ear.

“Er--Will--held Duncan pretty tight--didn't you? He's a hard one to

fool, too. Never suspected a mite, did he? Look out for your watch!”

Mr. Bixby seized it or it would have fallen. If his life had depended on

it, William Wetherell could not have spoken a word to Mr. Bixby then.

“You done well, Will, sure enough,” that gentleman continued to whisper.

“And Alvy's gal done well, too--you understand. I guess she's the only

one that ever snarled up Al Lovejoy so that he didn't know where he

was at. But it took a fine, delicate touch for her job and yours, Will.

Godfrey, this is the quickest roll-call I ever seed! They've got halfway

through Truro County. That fellow can talk faster than a side-show,

ticket-seller at a circus.”

The clerk was, indeed, performing prodigies of pronunciation. When he

reached Wells County, the last, Mr. Bixby so far lost his habitual sang

froid as to hammer on the rail with his fist.

“If there hain't a quorum, we're done for,” he said. “How much time has

gone away? Twenty minutes! Godfrey, some of 'em may break loose and git

here is five minutes!”

“Break loose?” Wetherell exclaimed involuntarily.

Mr. Bixby screwed up his face.

“You understand. Accidents is liable to happen.”

Mr. Wetherell didn't understand in the least, but just then the clerk

reached the last name on the roll; an instant of absolute silence, save

for the June-bugs, followed, while the assistant clerk ran over his

figures deftly and handed them to Mr. Sutton, who leaned forward to

receive them.

“One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative

and forty-eight in the negative, and the report of the Committee is

accepted.”

“Ten more'n a quorum!” ejaculated Mr. Bixby, in a voice of thanksgiving,

as the turmoil below began again. It seemed as though every man in the

opposition was on his feet and yelling at the chair: some to adjourn;

some to indefinitely postpone; some demanding roll-calls; others

swearing at these--for a division vote would have opened the doors.

Others tried to get out, and then ran down the aisles and called

fiercely on the Speaker to open the doors, and threatened him. But

the Honorable Heth Sutton did not lose his head, and it may be doubted

whether he ever appeared to better advantage than at that moment. He had

a voice like one of the Clovelly bulls that fed in his own pastures

in the valley, and by sheer bellowing he got silence, or something

approaching it,--the protests dying down to a hum; had recognised

another friend of the bill, and was putting another question.

“Mr. Gibbs of Wareham moves that the rules of the House be so far

suspended that this bill be read a second and third time by its title,

and be put upon its final passage at this time. And on this motion,”

thundered Mr. Sutton, above the tide of rising voices, “the yeas and

nays are called for. The doorkeepers will keep the doors shut.”

“Abbey of Ashburton.”

The nimble clerk had begun on the roll almost before the Speaker was

through, and checked off the name. Bijah Bixby mopped his brow with a

blue pocket-handkerchief.

“My God,” he said, “what a risk Jethro's took! they can't git through

another roll-call. Jest look at Heth! Ain't he carryin' it magnificent?

Hain't as ruffled as I be. I've knowed him ever sence he wahn't no

higher'n that desk. Never would have b'en in politics if it hadn't b'en

for me. Funny thing, Will--you and I was so excited we never thought to

look at the clock. Put up your watch. Godfrey, what's this?”

The noise of many feet was heard behind them. Men and women were

crowding breathlessly into the gallery.

“Didn't take it long to git noised araound,” said Mr. Bixby. “Say, Will,

they're bound to have got at 'em in the thea'tre. Don't see how they

held 'em off, c-cussed if I do.”

The seconds ticked into minutes, the air became stifling, for now the

front of the gallery was packed. Now, if ever, the fate of the Truro

Franchise hung in the balance, and, perhaps, the rule of Jethro Bass.

And now, as in the distance, came a faint, indefinable stir, not yet to

be identified by Wetherell's ears as a sound, but registered somewhere

in his brain as a warning note. Bijah Bixby, as sensitive as he,

straightened up to listen, and then the whispering was hushed. The

members below raised their heads, and some clutched the seats in front

of them and looked up at the high windows. Only the Speaker sat like a

wax statue of himself, and glanced neither to the right nor to the left.

“Harkness of Truro,” said the clerk.

“He's almost to Wells County again,” whispered Bijah, excitedly. “I

didn't callate he could do it. Will?”

“Yes?”

“Will--you hear somethin'?”

A distant shout floated with the night breeze in at the windows; a man

on the floor got to his feet and stood straining: a commotion was going

on at the back of the gallery, and a voice was heard crying out:--

“For the love of God, let me through!”

Then Wetherell turned to see the crowd at the back parting a little, to

see a desperate man in a gorgeous white necktie fighting his way toward

the rail. He wore no hat, his collar was wilted, and his normally ashen

face had turned white. And, strangest of all, clutched tightly in his

hand was a pink ribbon.

“It's Al Lovejoy,” said Bijah, laconically.

Unmindful of the awe-stricken stares he got from those about him when

his identity became known, Mr. Lovejoy gained the rail and shoved aside

a man who was actually making way for him. Leaning far out, he scanned

the house with inarticulate rage while the roll-call went monotonously

on. Some of the members looked up at him and laughed; others began to

make frantic signs, indicative of helplessness; still others telegraphed

him obvious advice about reenforcements which, if anything, increased

his fury. Mr. Bixby was now fanning himself with the blue handkerchief.

“I hear 'em!” he said, “I hear 'em, Will!”

And he did. The unmistakable hum of the voices of many men and the sound

of feet on stone flagging shook the silent night without. The clerk read

off the last name on the roll.

“Tompkins of Ulster.”

His assistant lost no time now. A mistake would have been fatal, but he

was an old hand. Unmindful of the rumble on the wooden stairs below, Mr.

Sutton took the list with an admirable deliberation.

“One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative,

forty-eight in the negative, the rules of the House are suspended, and”

(the clerk having twice mumbled the title of the bill) “the question is:

Shall the bill pass? As many as are of opinion that the bill pass will

say Aye, contrary minded No.”

Feet were in the House corridor now, and voices rising there, and noises

that must have been scuffling--yes, and beating of door panels.

Almost every member was standing, and it seemed as if they were all

shouting,--“personal privilege,” “fraud,” “trickery,” “open the doors.”

Bijah was slowly squeezing the blood out of William Wetherell's arm.

“The doorkeepers has the keys in their pockets!” Mr. Bixby had to shout,

for once.

Even then the Speaker did not flinch. By a seeming miracle he got a

semblance of order, recognized his man, and his great voice rang through

the hall and drowned all other sounds.

“And on this question a roll-call is ordered. The doorkeepers will close

the doors!”

Then, as in reaction, the gallery trembled with a roar of laughter.

But Mr. Sutton did not smile. The clerk scratched off the names with

lightning rapidity, scarce waiting for the answers. Every man's color

was known, and it was against the rules to be present and fail to vote.

The noise in the corridors grew louder, some one dealt a smashing kick

on a panel, and Wetherell ventured to ask Mr. Bixby if he thought the

doors would hold.

“They can break in all they've a mind to now,” he chuckled; “the Truro

Franchise is safe.”

“What do you mean?” Wetherell demanded excitedly.

“If a member hain't present when a question is put, he can't git into a

roll-call,” said Bijah.

The fact that the day was lost was evidently brought home to those

below, for the strife subsided gradually, and finally ceased altogether.

The whispers in the gallery died down, the spectators relayed a little.

Lovejoy alone remained tense, though he had seated himself on a

bench, and the hot anger in which he had come was now cooled into a

vindictiveness that set the hard lines of his face even harder. He

still clutched the ribbon. The last part of that famous roll-call was

conducted so quietly that a stranger entering the House would have

suspected nothing unusual. It was finished in absolute silence.

“One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative,

forty-eight in the negative, and the bill passes. The House will attend

to the title of the bill.”

“An act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich,” said the clerk,

glibly.

“Such will be the title of the bill unless otherwise ordered by the

House,” said Mr. Speaker Sutton. “The doorkeepers will open the doors.”

Somebody moved to adjourn, the motion was carried, and thus ended what

has gone down to history as the Woodchuck Session. Pandemonium reigned.

One hundred and forty belated members fought their way in at the

four entrances, and mingled with them were lobbyists of all sorts and

conditions, residents and visitors to the capital, men and women to whom

the drama of “Uncle Tom's Cabin” was as nothing to that of the Truro

Franchise Bill. It was a sight to look down upon. Fierce wrangles began

in a score of places, isolated personal remarks rose above the din, but

your New Englander rarely comes to blows; in other spots men with broad

smiles seized others by the hands and shook them violently, while Mr.

Speaker Sutton seemed in danger of suffocation by his friends. His

enemies, for the moment, could get nowhere near him. On this scene Mr.

Bijah Bixby gazed with pardonable pleasure.

“Guess there wahn't a mite of trouble about the river towns,” he said,

“I had 'em in my pocket. Will, let's amble round to the theatre. We

ought to git in two acts.”

William Wetherell went. There is no need to go into the psychology

of the matter. It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary

insanity caused by the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for

his brain was in a whirl; or Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him. As they

walked through the silent streets toward the Opera House, he listened

perforce to Mr. Bixby's comments upon some of the innumerable details

which Jethro had planned and quietly carried out while sitting, in the

window of the Throne Room. A great light dawned on William Wetherell,

but too late.

Jethro's trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby

was one) had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose

fidelity and secrecy could be absolutely depended upon to attend the

Woodchuck Session; and, further to guard against surprise, this order

had not gone out until the last minute (hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert's

conduct). The seats of these members at the theatre had been filled by

accommodating townspeople and visitors. Forestalling a possible vote on

the morrow to recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty members

whose loyalty was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was

not of the best. So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which

was a revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell.

By the time he had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of

Fosters Opera House, and they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers,

a conspicuous and meditative gentleman leaning against a pillar. He was

ludicrously tall and ludicrously thin, his hands were in his trousers

pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday broadcloth coat hung down behind

him awry. One long foot was crossed over the other and rested on the

point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side. He had, on the

whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork. Mr. Bixby approached

him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down until

it was possible to speak into his ear. The gentleman apparently did not

resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being upset.

“How be you, Peleg? Er--you know Will?”

“No,” said the gentleman.

Mr. Bixby seized Mr. Wetherell under the elbow, and addressed himself to

the storekeeper's ear.

“Will, I want you to shake hands with Senator Peleg Hartington,

of Brampton. This is Will Wetherell, Peleg,--from Coniston--you

understand.”

The senator took one hand from his pocket.

“How be you?” he said. Mr. Bixby was once more pulling down on his

shoulder.

“H-haow was it here?” he demanded.

“Almighty funny,” answered Senator Hartington, sadly, and waved at the

lobby. “There wahn't standin' room in the place.”

“Jethro Bass Republican Club come and packed the entrance,” explained

Mr. Bixby with a wink. “You understand, Will? Go on, Peleg.”

“Sidewalk and street, too,” continued Mr. Hartington, slowly. “First

come along Ball of Towles, hollerin' like blazes. They crumpled him all

up and lost him. Next come old man Duncan himself.”

“Will kep' Duncan,” Mr. Bixby interjected.

“That was wholly an accident,” exclaimed Mr. Wetherell, angrily.

“Will wahn't born in the country,” said Mr. Bixby.

Mr. Hartington bestowed on the storekeeper a mournful look, and

continued:--

“Never seed Duncan sweatin' before. He didn't seem to grasp why the boys

was there.”

“Didn't seem to understand,” put in Mr. Bixby, sympathetically.

“'For God's sake, gentlemen,' says he, 'let me in! The Truro Bill!' 'The

Truro Bill hain't in the theatre, Mr. Duncan,' says Dan Everett.

Cussed if I didn't come near laughin'. 'That's “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” Mr.

Duncan,' says Dan. 'You're a dam fool,' says Duncan. I didn't know he

was profane. 'Make room for Mr. Duncan,' says Dan, 'he wants to see the

show.' 'I'm a-goin' to see you in jail for this, Everett,' says Duncan.

They let him push in about half a rod, and they swallowed him. He

was makin' such a noise that they had to close the doors of the

theatre--so's not to disturb the play-actors.”

“You understand,” said Mr. Bixby to Wetherell. Whereupon he gave another

shake to Mr. Hartington, who had relapsed into a sort of funereal

meditation.

“Well,” resumed that personage, “there was some more come, hollerin'

about the Truro Bill. Not many. Guess they'll all have to git their

wimmen-folks to press their clothes to-morrow. Then Duncan wanted to

git out again, but 'twan't exactly convenient. Callated he was

suffocatin'--seemed to need air. Little mite limp when he broke loose,

Duncan was.”

The Honorable Peleg stopped again, as if he were overcome by the

recollection of Mr. Duncan's plight.

“Er--er--Peleg!”

Mr. Hartington started.

“What'd they do?--what'd they do?”

“Do?”

“How'd they git notice to 'em?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Hartington, “cussed if that wuhn't funny. Let's see,

where was I? After awhile they went over t'other side of the street,

talkin' sly, waitin' for the act to end. But goldarned if it ever did

end.”

For once Mr. Bixby didn't seem to understand.

“D-didn't end?”

“No,” explained Mr. Hartington; “seems they hitched a kind of nigger

minstrel show right on to it--banjos and thingumajigs in front of the

curtain while they was changin' scenes, and they hitched the second act

right on to that. Nobody come out of the theatre at all. Funny notion,

wahn't it?”

Mr. Bixby's face took on a look of extreme cunning. He smiled broadly

and poked Mr. Wetherell in an extremely sensitive portion of his ribs.

On such occasions the nasal quality of Bijah's voice seemed to grow.

“You see?” he said.

“Know that little man, Gibbs, don't ye?” inquired Mr. Hartington.

“Airley Gibbs, hain't it? Runs a livery business daown to Rutgers, on

Lovejoy's railroad,” replied Mr. Bixby, promptly. “I know him. Knew old

man Gibbs well's I do you. Mean cuss.”

“This Airley's smart--wahn't quite smart enough, though. His bright idea

come a little mite late. Hunted up old Christy, got the key to his law

office right here in the Duncan Block, went up through the skylight,

clumb down to the roof of Randall's store next door, shinned up the

lightnin' rod on t'other side, and stuck his head plump into the Opery

House window.”

“I want to know!” ejaculated Mr. Bixby.

“Somethin' terrible pathetic was goin' on on the stage,” resumed Mr.

Hartington, “the folks didn't see him at first,--they was all cryin' and

everythin' was still, but Airley wahn't affected. As quick as he got his

breath he hollered right out loud's he could: 'The Truro Bill's up in

the House, boys. We're skun if you don't git thar quick.' Then they tell

me' the lightnin' rod give way; anyhow, he came down on Randall's gravel

roof considerable hard, I take it.”

Mr. Hartington, apparently, had an aggravating way of falling into

mournful revery and of forgetting his subject. Mr. Bixby was forced to

jog him again.

“Yes, they did,” he said, “they did. They come out like the theatre was

afire. There was some delay in gettin' to the street, but not much--not

much. All the Republican Clubs in the state couldn't have held 'em then,

and the profanity they used wahn't especially edifyin'.”

“Peleg's a deacon--you understand,” said Mr. Bixby. “Say, Peleg, where

was Al Lovejoy?”

“Lovejoy come along with the first of 'em. Must have hurried some--they

tell me he was settin' way down in front alongside of Alvy Hopkins's

gal, and when Airley hollered out she screeched and clutched on to Al,

and Al said somethin' he hadn't ought to and tore off one of them pink

gew-gaws she was covered with. He was the maddest man I ever see. Some

of the club was crowded inside, behind the seats, standin' up to see

the show. Al was so anxious to git through he hit Si Dudley in the

mouth--injured him some, I guess. Pity, wahn't it?”

“Si hain't in politics, you understand,” said Mr. Bixby. “Callate Si

paid to git in there, didn't he, Peleg?”

“Callate he did,” assented Senator Hartington.

A long and painful pause followed. There seemed, indeed, nothing more

to be said. The sound of applause floated out of the Opera House doors,

around which the remaining loiterers were clustered.

“Goin' in, be you, Peleg?” inquired Mr. Bixby.

Mr. Hartington shook his head.

“Will and me had a notion to see somethin' of the show,” said Mr. Bixby,

almost apologetically. “I kep' my ticket.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, “I guess you'll find some of

the show left. That hain't b'en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain.”

The next afternoon, when Mr. Isaac D. Worthington happened to be sitting

alone in the office of the Truro Railroad at the capital, there came a

knock at the door, and Mr. Bijah Bixby entered. Now, incredible as it

may seem, Mr. Worthington did not know Mr. Bixby--or rather, did not

remember him. Mr. Worthington had not had at that time much of an

experience in politics, and he did not possess a very good memory for

faces.

Mr. Bixby, who had, as we know, a confidential and winning manner,

seated himself in a chair very close to Mr. Worthington--somewhat to

that gentleman's alarm. “How be you?” said Bijah, “I-I've got a little

bill here--you understand.”

Mr. Worthington didn't understand, and he drew his chair away from Mr.

Bixby's.

“I don't know anything about it, sir,” answered the president of the

Truro Railroad, indignantly; “this is neither the manner nor the place

to present a bill. I don't want to see it.”

Mr. Bixby moved his chair up again. “Callate you will want to see this

bill, Mr. Worthington,” he insisted, not at all abashed. “Jethro Bass

sent it--you understand--it's engrossed.”

Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with

white ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the

Truro Franchise Bill.

It is safe to say that Mr. Worthington understood.

CHAPTER XVI

There are certain instruments used by scientists so delicate that they

have to be wrapped in cotton wool and kept in ductless places, and so

sensitive that the slightest shock will derange them. And there are

certain souls which cannot stand the jars of life--souls created

to register thoughts and sentiments too fine for those of coarser

construction. Such was the soul of the storekeeper of Coniston. Whether

or not he was one of those immortalized in the famous Elegy, it is

not for us to say. A celebrated poet who read the letters to the

Guardian--at Miss Lucretia Penniman's request--has declared Mr.

Wetherell to have been a genius. He wrote those letters, as we know,

after he had piled his boxes and rolled his barrels into place; after

he had added up the columns in his ledger and recorded, each week, the

small but ever increasing deficit which he owed to Jethro Bass. Could

he have been removed from the barrels and the ledgers, and the debts

and the cares and the implications, what might we have had from his pen?

That will never be known.

We left him in the lobby of the Opera House, but he did not go in to see

the final act of “Uncle Tom's Cabin.” He made his way, alone, back to

the hotel, slipped in by a side entrance, and went directly to his room,

where Cynthia found him, half an hour later, seated by the open window

in the dark.

“Aren't you well, Dad?” she asked anxiously. “Why didn't you come to see

the play?”

“I--I was detained Cynthia,” he said. “Yes--I am well.”

She sat down beside him and felt his forehead and his hands, and the

events of the evening which were on her lips to tell him remained

unspoken.

“You ought not to have left Coniston,” she said; “the excitement is too

much for you. We will go back tomorrow.”

“Yes, Cynthia, we will go back to-morrow.”

“In the morning?”

“On the early train,” said Wetherell, “and now you must go to sleep.”

“I am glad,” said Cynthia, as she kissed him good night. “I have enjoyed

it here, and I am grateful to Uncle Jethro for bringing us, but--but I

like Coniston best.”

William Wetherell could have slept but a few hours. When he awoke the

sparrows were twittering outside, the fresh cool smells of the morning

were coming in at his windows, and the sunlight was just striking across

the roofs through the green trees of the Capitol Park. The remembrance

of a certain incident of the night before crept into his mind, and he

got up, and drew on his clothes and thrust his few belongings into the

carpet-bag, and knocked on Cynthia's door. She was already dressed, and

her eyes rested searchingly on his face.

“Dad, you aren't well. I know it,” she said.

But he denied that he was not.

Her belongings were in a neat little bundle under her arm. But when she

went to put them in the bag she gave an exclamation, knelt down, took

everything out that he had packed, and folded each article over again

with amazing quickness. Then she made a rapid survey of the room lest

she had forgotten anything, closed the bag, and they went out and along

the corridor. But when Wetherell turned to go down the stairs, she

stopped him.

“Aren't you going to say goodby to Uncle Jethro?”

“I--I would rather go on and get in the train, Cynthia,” he said.

“Jethro will understand.”

Cynthia was worried, but she did not care to leave him; and she led him,

protesting, into the dining room. He had a sinking fear that they might

meet Jethro there, but only a few big-boned countrymen were scattered

about, attended by sleepy waitresses. Lest Cynthia might suspect how his

head was throbbing, Wetherell tried bravely to eat his breakfast. He did

not know that she had gone out, while they were waiting, and written a

note to Jethro, explaining that her father was ill, and that they were

going back to Coniston. After breakfast, when they went to the desk, the

clerk stared at them in astonishment.

“Going, Mr. Wetherell?” he exclaimed.

“I find that I have to get back,” stammered the storekeeper. “Will you

tell me the amount of my bill?”

“Judge Bass gave me instructions that he would settle that.”

“It is very kind of Mr. Bass,” said Wetherell, “but I prefer to pay it

myself.”

The man hesitated.

“The judge will be very angry, Mr. Wetherell.”

“Kindly give me the bill.”

The clerk made it out and handed it over in silence. Wetherell had in

his pocket the money from several contributions to the Guardian, and he

paid him. Then they set out for the station, bought their tickets and

hurried past the sprinkling of people there. The little train for Truro

was standing under the sheds, the hissing steam from the locomotive

rising perpendicular in the still air of the morning, and soon they were

settled in one of the straight-backed seats. The car was almost empty,

for few people were going up that day, and at length, after what, seemed

an eternity of waiting, they started, and soon were in the country once

more in that wonderful Truro valley with its fruit trees and its clover

scents; with its sparkling stream that tumbled through the passes and

mirrored between green meadow-banks the blue and white of the sky. How

hungrily they drank in the freshness of it.

They reached Truro village at eleven. Outside the little tavern there,

after dinner, the green stage was drawn up; and Tom the driver cracked

his long whip over the Morgan leaders and they started, swaying in the

sand ruts and jolting over the great stones that cropped out of the

road. Up they climbed, through narrow ways in the forest--ways hedged

with alder and fern and sumach and wild grape, adorned with oxeye

daisies and tiger lilies, and the big purple flowers which they knew

and loved so well. They passed, too, wild lakes overhung with primeval

trees, where the iris and the waterlily grew among the fallen trunks and

the water-fowl called to each other across the blue stretches. And at

length, when the sun was beginning visibly to fall, they came out into

an open cut on the western side and saw again the long line of Coniston

once more against the sky.

“Dad,” said Cynthia, as she gazed, “don't you love it better than any

other place in the world?”

He did. But he could not answer her.

An hour later, from the hilltops above Isaac Worthington's mills, they

saw the terraced steeple of Brampton church, and soon the horses were

standing with drooping heads and wet sides in front of Mr. Sherman's

tavern in Brampton Street; and Lem Hallowell, his honest face aglow with

joy, was lifting Cynthia out of the coach as if she were a bundle of

feathers.

“Upon my word,” he cried, “this is a little might sudden! What's the

matter with the capital, Will? Too wicked and sophisticated down thar to

suit ye?” By this time, Wetherell, too, had reached the ground, and as

Lem Hallowell gazed into his face the laughter in his own died away and

gave place to a look of concern. “Don't wonder ye come back,” he said,

“you're as white as Moses's hoss.”

“He isn't feeling very well, Lem;” said Cynthia.

“Jest tuckered, that's all,” answered Lem; “you git him right into the

stage, Cynthy, I won't be long. Hurry them things off, Tom,” he called,

and himself seized a huge crate from the back of the coach and flung it

on his shoulder. He had his cargo on in a jiffy, clucked to his horses,

and they turned into the familiar road to Coniston just as the sun was

dipping behind the south end of the mountain.

“They'll be surprised some, and disappointed some,” said Lem, cheerily;

“they was kind of plannin' a little celebration when you come back,

Will--you and Cynthy. Amandy Hatch was a-goin' to bake a cake, and the

minister was callatin' to say some word of welcome. Wahn't goin' to

be anything grand--jest homelike. But you was right to come if you was

tuckered. I guess Cynthy fetched you. Rias he kep' store and done it

well,--brisker'n I ever see him, Rias was. Wait till I put some of them

things back, and make you more comfortable, Will.”

He moved a few parcels and packages from Wetherell's feet and glanced at

Cynthia as he did so. The mountain cast its vast blue shadow over forest

and pasture, and above the pines the white mist was rising from Coniston

Water--rising in strange shapes. Lem's voice seemed to William Wetherell

to have given way to a world-wide silence, in the midst of which he

sought vainly for Cynthia and the stage driver. Most extraordinary of

all, out of the silence and the void came the checker-paned windows

of the store at Coniston, then the store itself, with the great oaks

bending over it, then the dear familiar faces,--Moses and Amandy, Eph

Prescott limping toward them, and little Rias Richardson in an apron

with a scoop shovel in his hand, and many others. They were not smiling

at the storekeeper's return--they looked very grave. Then somebody

lifted him tenderly from the stage and said:--

“Don't you worry a mite, Cynthy. Jest tuckered, that's all.”

William Wetherell was “just tuckered.” The great Dr. Coles, authority

on pulmonary troubles, who came all the way from Boston, could give no

better verdict than that. It was Jethro Bass who had induced Dr. Coles

to come to Coniston--much against the great man's inclination, and to

the detriment of his patients: Jethro who, on receiving Cynthia's note,

had left the capital on the next train and had come to Coniston, and had

at once gone to Boston for the specialist.

“I do not know why I came,” said the famous physician to Dr. Abraham

Rowell of Tarleton, “I never shall know. There is something about

that man Jethro Bass which compels you to do his will. He has a most

extraordinary personality. Is this storekeeper a great friend of his?”

“The only intimate friend he had in the world,” answered Dr. Rowell;

“none of us could ever understand it. And as for the girl, Jethro Bass

worships her.”

“If nursing could cure him, I'd trust her to do it. She's a natural-born

nurse.”

The two physicians were talking in low tones in the little garden behind

the store when Jethro came out of the doorway.

“He looks as if he were suffering too,” said the Boston physician, and

he walked toward Jethro and laid a hand upon his shoulders. “I give him

until winter, my friend,” said Dr. Coles.

Jethro Bass sat down on the doorstep--on that same millstone where he

had talked with Cynthia many years before--and was silent for a long

while. The doctor was used to scenes of sorrow, but the sight of this

man's suffering unnerved him, and he turned from it.

“D-doctor?” said Jethro, at last.

The doctor turned again: “Yes?” he said.

“D-doctor--if Wetherell hadn't b'en to the capital would he have

lived--if he hadn't been to the capital?”

“My friend,” said Dr. Coles, “if Mr. Wetherell had always lived in a

warm house, and had always been well fed, and helped over the rough

places and shielded from the storms, he might have lived longer. It is a

marvel to me that he has lived so long.”

And then the doctor went way, back to Boston. Many times in his long

professional life had the veil been lifted for him--a little. But as he

sat in the train he said to himself that in this visit to the hamlet

of Coniston he had had the strangest glimpse of all. William Wetherell

rallied, as Dr. Coles had predicted, from that first sharp attack, and

one morning they brought up a reclining chair which belonged to Mr.

Satterlee, the minister, and set it in the window. There, in the still

days of the early autumn, Wetherell looked down upon the garden he

had grown to love, and listened to the song of Coniston Water. There

Cynthia, who had scarcely left his side, read to him from Keats and

Shelley and Tennyson--yet the thought grew on her that he did not seem

to hear. Even that wonderful passage of Milton's, beginning “So sinks

the day-star in the ocean bed,” which he always used to beg her to

repeat, did not seem to move him now.

The neighbors came and sat with him, but he would not often speak.

Cheery Lem Hallowell and his wife, and Cousin Ephraim, to talk about

the war, hobbling slowly up the stairs--for rheumatism had been added to

that trouble of the Wilderness bullet now, and Ephraim was getting

along in years; and Rias Richardson stole up in his carpet slippers;

and Moses, after his chores were done, and Amandy with her cakes and

delicacies, which he left untouched--though Amandy never knew it. Yes,

and Jethro came. Day by day he would come silently into the room, and

sit silently for a space, and go as silently out of it. The farms were

neglected now on Thousand Acre Hill. William Wetherell would take his

hand, and speak to him, but do no more than that.

There were times when Cynthia leaned over him, listening as he breathed

to know whether he slept or were awake. If he were not sleeping, he

would speak her name: he repeated it often in those days, as though the

sound of it gave him comfort; and he would fall asleep with it on his

lips, holding her hand, and thinking, perhaps, of that other Cynthia

who had tended and nursed and shielded him in other days. Then she would

steal down the stairs to Jethro on the doorstep: to Jethro who would

sit there for hours at a time, to the wonder and awe of his neighbors.

Although they knew that he loved the storekeeper as he loved no other

man, his was a grief that they could not understand.

Cynthia used to go to Jethro in the garden. Sorrow had brought them very

near together; and though she had loved him before, now he had become

her reliance and her refuge. The first time Cynthia saw him; when the

worst of the illness had passed and the strange and terrifying apathy

had come, she had hidden her head on his shoulder and wept there. Jethro

kept that coat, with the tear stains on it, to his dying day, and never

wore it again.

“Sometimes--sometimes I think if he hadn't gone to the capital, Cynthy,

this mightn't hev come,” he said to her once.

“But the doctor said that didn't matter, Uncle Jethro,” she answered,

trying to comfort him. She, too, believed that something had happened at

the capital.

“N-never spoke to you about anything there--n-never spoke to you,

Cynthia?”

“No, never,” she said. “He--he hardly speaks at all, Uncle Jethro.”

One bright morning after the sun had driven away the frost, when the

sumacs and maples beside Coniston Water were aflame with red, Bias

Richardson came stealing up the stairs and whispered something to

Cynthia.

“Dad,” she said, laying down her book, “it's Mr. Merrill. Will you see

him?”

William Wetherell gave her a great fright. He started up from his

pillows, and seized her wrist with a strength which she had not thought

remained in his fingers.

“Mr. Merrill!” he cried--“Mr. Merrill here!”

“Yes,” answered Cynthia, agitatedly, “he's downstairs--in the store.”

“Ask him to come up,” said Wetherell, sinking back again, “ask him to

come up.”

Cynthia, as she stood in the passage, was of two minds about it. She

was thoroughly frightened, and went first to the garden to ask Jethro's

advice. But Jethro, so Milly Skinner said, had gone off half an hour

before, and did not know that Mr. Merrill had arrived. Cynthia went back

again to her father.

“Where's Mr. Merrill?” asked Wetherell.

“Dad, do you think you ought to see him? He--he might excite you.”

“I insist upon seeing him, Cynthia.”

William Wetherell had never said anything like that before. But Cynthia

obeyed him, and presently led Mr. Merrill into the room. The kindly

little railroad president was very serious now. The wasted face of the

storekeeper, enhanced as it was by the beard, gave Mr. Merrill such a

shock that he could not speak for a few moments--he who rarely lacked

for cheering words on any occasion. A lump rose in his throat as he went

over and stood by the chair and took the sick man's hand.

“I am glad you came, Mr. Merrill,” said Wetherell, simply, “I wanted to

speak to you. Cynthia, will you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

Cynthia went, troubled and perplexed, wondering at the change in him. He

had had something on his mind--now she was sure of it--something which

Mr. Merrill might be able to relieve.

It was Mr. Merrill who spoke first when she was gone.

“I was coming up to Brampton,” he said, “and Tom Collins, who drives the

Truro coach, told me you were sick. I had not heard of it.”

Mr. Merrill, too, had something on his mind, and did not quite know how

to go on. There was in William Wetherell, as he sat in the chair with

his eyes fixed on his visitor's face, a dignity which Mr. Merrill had

not seen before--had not thought the man might possess.

“I was coming to see you, anyway,” Mr. Merrill said.

“I did you a wrong--though as God judges me, I did not think of it at

the time. It was not until Alexander Duncan spoke to me last week that I

thought of it at all.”

“Yes,” said Wetherell.

“You see,” continued Mr. Merrill wiping his brow, for he found the

matter even more difficult than he had imagined, “it was not until

Duncan told me how you had acted in his library that I guessed the

truth--that I remembered myself how you had acted. I knew that you were

not mixed up in politics, but I also knew that you were an intimate

friend of Jethro's, and I thought that you had been let into the secret

of the woodchuck session. I don't defend the game of politics as it is

played, Mr. Wetherell, but all of us who are friends of Jethro's are

generally willing to lend a hand in any little manoeuvre that is going

on, and have a practical joke when we can. It was not until I saw you

sitting there beside Duncan that the idea occurred to me. It didn't make

a great deal of difference whether Duncan or Lovejoy got to the House or

not, provided they didn't learn of the matter too early, because some

of their men had been bought off that day. It suited Jethro's sense of

humor to play the game that way--and it was very effective. When I

saw you there beside Duncan I remembered that he had spoken about the

Guardian letters, and the notion occurred to me to get him to show you

his library. I have explained to him that you were innocent. I--I hope

you haven't been worrying.”

William Wetherell sat very still for a while, gazing out of the window,

but a new look had come into his eyes.

“Jethro Bass did not know that you--that you had used me?” he asked at

length.

“No,” replied Mr. Merrill thickly, “no. He didn't know a thing about

it--he doesn't know it now, I believe.”

A smile came upon Wetherell's face, but Mr. Merrill could not look at

it.

“You have made me very happy,” said the storekeeper, tremulously. “I--I

have no right to be proud--I have taken his money--he has supported my

daughter and myself all these years. But he had never asked me to--to do

anything, and I liked to think that he never would.”

Mr. Merrill could not speak. The tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“I want you to promise me, Mr. Merril!” he went on presently, “I want

you to promise me that you will never speak to Jethro, of this, or to my

daughter, Cynthia.”

Mr. Merrill merely nodded his head in assent. Still he could not speak.

“They might think it was this that caused my death. It was not. I know

very well that I am worn out, and that I should have gone soon in any

case. And I must leave Cynthia to him. He loves her as his own child.”

William Wetherell, his faith in Jethro restored, was facing death as he

had never faced life. Mr. Merrill was greatly affected.

“You must not speak of dying, Wetherell,” said he, brokenly. “Will you

forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, now that you have explained matters, Mr.

Merrill” said the storekeeper, and he smiled again. “If my fibre had

been a little tougher, this thing would never have happened. There is

only one more request I have to make. And that is, to assure Mr. Duncan,

from me, that I did not detain him purposely.”

“I will see him on my way to Boston,” answered Mr. Merrill.

Then Cynthia was called. She was waiting anxiously in the passage

for the interview to be ended, and when she came in one glance at her

father's face told her that he was happier. She, too, was happier.

“I wish you would come every day, Mr. Merrill” she said, when they

descended into the garden after the three had talked awhile. “It is the

first time since he fell ill that he seems himself.”

Mr. Merrill's answer was to take her hand and pat it. He sat down on the

millstone and drew a deep breath of that sparkling air and sighed,

for his memory ran back to his own innocent boyhood in the New England

country. He talked to Cynthia until Jethro came.

“I have taken a fancy to this girl, Jethro,” said the little railroad

president, “I believe I'll steal her; a fellow can't have too many of

'em, you know. I'll tell you one thing,--you won't keep her always shut

up here in Coniston. She's much too good to waste on the desert air.”

Perhaps Mr. Merrill, too, had been thinking of the Elegy that morning.

“I don't mean to run down Coniston it's one of the most beautiful places

I ever saw. But seriously, Jethro, you and Wetherell ought to send her

to school in Boston after a while. She's about the age of my girls, and

she can live in my house: Ain't I right?”

“D-don't know but what you be, Steve,” Jethro answered slowly.

“I am right,” declared Mr. Merrill “you'll back me in this, I know

it. Why, she's like your own daughter. You remember what I say. I mean

it.--What are you thinking about, Cynthia?”

“I couldn't leave Dad and Uncle Jethro,” she said.

“Why, bless your soul,” said Mr. Merrill “bring Dad along. We'll find

room for him. And I guess Uncle Jethro will get to Boston twice a month

if you're there.”

And Mr. Merrill got into the buggy with Mr. Sherman and drove away to

Brampton, thinking of many things.

“S-Steve's a good man,” said Jethro. “C-come up here from Brampton to

see your father--did he?”

“Yes,” answered Cynthia, “he is very kind.” She was about to tell Jethro

what a strange difference this visit had made in her father's spirits,

but some instinct kept her silent. She knew that Jethro had never ceased

to reproach himself for inviting Wetherell to the capital, and she was

sure that something had happened there which had disturbed her father

and brought on that fearful apathy. But the apathy was dispelled now,

and she shrank from giving Jethro pain by mentioning the fact.

He never knew, indeed, until many years afterward, what had brought

Stephen Merrill to Coniston. When Jethro went up the stairs that

afternoon, he found William Wetherell alone, looking out over the garden

with a new peace and contentment in his eyes. Jethro drew breath when he

saw that look, as if a great load had been lifted from his heart.

“F-feelin' some better to-day, Will?” he said.

“I am well again, Jethro,” replied the storekeeper, pressing Jethro's

hand for the first time in months.

“S-soon be, Will,” said Jethro, “s-soon be.”

Wetherell, who was not speaking of the welfare of the body, did not

answer.

“Jethro,” he said presently, “there is a little box lying in the top of

my trunk over there in the corner. Will you get it for me.”

Jethro rose and opened the rawhide trunk and handed the little rosewood

box to his friend. Wetherell took it and lifted the lid reverently, with

that same smile on his face and far-off look in his eyes, and drew out

a small daguerreotype in a faded velvet frame. He gazed at the picture

a long time, and then he held it out to Jethro; and Jethro looked at it,

and his hand trembled.

It was a picture of Cynthia Ware. And who can say what emotions it awoke

in Jethro's heart? She was older than the Cynthia he had known, and yet

she did not seem so. There was the same sweet, virginal look in the

gray eyes, and the same exquisite purity in the features. He saw her

again--as if it were yesterday--walking in the golden green light under

the village maples, and himself standing in the tannery door; he saw the

face under the poke bonnet on the road to Brampton, and heard the thrush

singing in the woods. And--if he could only blot out that scene from his

life!--remembered her, a transformed Cynthia,--remembered that face in

the lantern-light when he had flung back the hood that shaded it; and

that hair which he had kissed, wet, then, from the sleet. Ah, God, for

that briefest of moments she had been his!

So he stared at the picture as it lay in the palm of his hand, and

forgot him who had been her husband. But at length he started, as from a

dream, and gave it back to Wetherell, who was watching him. Her name had

never been mentioned between the two men, and yet she had been the one

woman in the world to both.

“It is strange,” said William Wetherell, “it is strange that I should

have had but two friends in my life, and that she should have been one

and you the other. She found me destitute and brought me back to life

and married me, and cared for me until she died. And after that--you

cared for me.”

“You--you mustn't think of that, Will, 'twahn't much what I did--no more

than any one else would hev done!”

“It was everything,” answered the storekeeper, simply; “each of you came

between me and destruction. There is something that I have always meant

to tell you, Jethro,--something that it may be a comfort for you to

know. Cynthia loved you.”

Jethro Bass did not answer. He got up and stood in the window, looking

out.

“When she married me,” Wetherell continued steadily, “she told me that

there was one whom she had never been able to drive from her heart. And

one summer evening, how well I recall it!--we were walking under the

trees on the Mall and we met my old employer, Mr. Judson, the jeweller.

He put me in mind of the young countryman who had come in to buy a

locket, and I asked her if she knew you. Strange that I should have

remembered your name, wasn't it? It was then that she led me to a bench

and confessed that you were the man whom she could not forget. I used to

hate you then--as much as was in me to hate. I hated and feared you when

I first came to Coniston. But now I can tell you--I can even be happy in

telling you.”

Jethro Bass groaned. He put his hand to his throat as though he were

stifling. Many, many years ago he had worn the locket there. And now?

Now an impulse seized him, and he yielded to it. He thrust his hand in

his coat and drew out a cowhide wallet, and from the wallet the oval

locket itself. There it was, tarnished with age, but with that memorable

inscription still legible,--“Cynthy, from Jethro”; not Cynthia, but

Cynthy. How the years fell away as he read it! He handed it in silence

to the storekeeper, and in silence went to the window again. Jethro Bass

was a man who could find no outlet for his agony in speech or tears.

“Yes,” said Wetherell, “I thought you would have kept it. Dear, dear,

how well I remember it! And I remember how I patronized you when you

came into the shop. I believed I should live to be something in the

world, then. Yes, she loved you, Jethro. I can die more easily now that

I have told you--it has been on my mind all these years.”

The locket fell open in William Wetherell's hand, for the clasp had

become worn with time, and there was a picture of little Cynthia within:

of little Cynthia,--not so little now,--a photograph taken in Brampton

the year before. Wetherell laid it beside the daguerreotype.

“She looks like her,” he said aloud; “but the child is more vigorous,

more human--less like a spirit. I have always thought of Cynthia Ware as

a spirit.”

Jethro turned at the words, and came and stood looking over Wetherell's

shoulder at the pictures of mother and daughter. In the rosewood box

was a brooch and a gold ring--Cynthia Ware's wedding ring--and two small

slips of yellow paper. William Wetherell opened one of these, disclosing

a little braid of brown hair. He folded the paper again and laid it in

the locket, and handed that to Jethro.

“It is all I have to give you,” he said, “but I know that you will

cherish it, and cherish her, when I am gone. She--she has been a

daughter to both of us.”

“Yes,” said Jethro, “I will.”

William Wetherell lived but a few days longer. They laid him to rest at

last in the little ground which Captain Timothy Prescott had hewn out

of the forest with his axe, where Captain Timothy himself lies under

his slate headstone with the quaint lettering of bygone days.--That same

autumn Jethro Bass made a pilgrimage to Boston, and now Cynthia Ware

sleeps there, too, beside her husband, amid the scenes she loved so

well.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

One day, in the November following William Wetherell's death, Jethro

Bass astonished Coniston by moving to the little cottage in the village

which stood beside the disused tannery, and which had been his father's.

It was known as the tannery house. His reasons for this step, when

at length discovered, were generally commended: they were, in fact, a

disinclination to leave a girl of Cynthia's tender age alone on Thousand

Acre Hill while he journeyed on his affairs about the country. The Rev.

Mr. Satterlee, gaunt, red-faced, but the six feet of him a man and

a Christian, from his square-toed boots to the bleaching yellow hair

around his temples, offered to become her teacher. For by this time

Cynthia had exhausted the resources of the little school among the

birches.

The four years of her life in the tannery house which are now briefly

to be chronicled were, for her, full of happiness and peace. Though the

young may sorrow, they do not often mourn. Cynthia missed her father; at

times, when the winds kept her wakeful at night, she wept for him. But

she loved Jethro Bass and served him with a devotion that filled his

heart with strange ecstasies--yes, and forebodings. In all his existence

he had never known a love like this. He may have imagined it once, back

in the bright days of his youth; but the dreams of its fulfilment had

fallen far short of the exquisite touch of the reality in which he now

spent his days at home. In summer, when she sat, in the face of all the

conventions of the village, reading under the butternut tree before the

house, she would feel his eyes upon her, and the mysterious yearning in

them would startle her. Often during her lessons with Mr. Satterlee in

the parlor of the parsonage she would hear a noise outside and perceive

Jethro leaning against the pillar. Both Cynthia and Mr. Satterlee knew

that he was there, and both, by a kind of tacit agreement, ignored the

circumstance.

Cynthia, in this period, undertook Jethro's education, too. She could

have induced him to study the making of Latin verse by the mere asking.

During those days which he spent at home, and which he had grown to

value beyond price, he might have been seen seated on the ground

with his back to the butternut tree while Cynthia read aloud from the

well-worn books which had been her father's treasures, books that took

on marvels of meaning from her lips. Cynthia's powers of selection were

not remarkable at this period, and perhaps it was as well that she never

knew the effect of the various works upon the hitherto untamed soul of

her listener. Milton and Tennyson and Longfellow awoke in him by their

very music troubled and half-formed regrets; Carlyle's “Frederick the

Great” set up tumultuous imaginings; but the “Life of Jackson” (as did

the story of Napoleon long ago) stirred all that was masterful in his

blood. Unlettered as he was, Jethro had a power which often marks the

American of action--a singular grasp of the application of any sentence

or paragraph to his own life; and often, about this time, he took

away the breath of a judge or a senator by flinging at them a chunk of

Carlyle or Parton.

It was perhaps as well that Cynthia was not a woman at this time, and

that she had grown up with him, as it were. His love, indeed, was that

of a father for a daughter; but it held within it as a core the

revived love of his youth for Cynthia, her mother. Tender as were the

manifestations of this love, Cynthia never guessed the fires within, for

there was in truth something primeval in the fierceness of his passion.

She was his now--his alone, to cherish and sweeten the declining years

of his life, and when by a chance Jethro looked upon her and thought of

the suitor who was to come in the fulness of her years, he burned with

a hatred which it is given few men to feel. It was well for Jethro that

these thoughts came not often.

Sometimes, in the summer afternoons, they took long drives through the

town behind Jethro's white horse on business. “Jethro's gal,” as Cynthia

came to be affectionately called, held the reins while Jethro went in

to talk to the men folk. One August evening found Cynthia thus beside

a poplar in front of Amos Cuthbert's farmhouse, a poplar that shimmered

green-gold in the late afternoon, and from the buggy-seat Cynthia looked

down upon a thousand purple hilltops and mountain peaks of another

state. The view aroused in the girl visions of the many wonders which

life was to hold, and she did not hear the sharp voice beside her

until the woman had spoken twice. Jethro came out in the middle of the

conversation, nodded to Mrs. Cuthbert, and drove off.

“Uncle Jethro,” asked Cynthia, presently, “what is a mortgage?”

Jethro struck the horse with the whip, an uncommon action with him, and

the buggy was jerked forward sharply over the boulders.

“Er--who's b'en talkin' about mortgages, Cynthy?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Cuthbert said that when folks had mortgage held over them they had

to take orders whether they liked them or not. She said that Amos had to

do what you told him because there was a mortgage. That isn't so is it?”

Jethro did not speak. Presently Cynthia laid her hand over his.

“Mrs. Cuthbert is a spiteful woman,” she said. “I know the reason why

people obey you--it's because you're so great. And Daddy used to tell me

so.”

A tremor shook Jethro's frame and the hand on which hers rested, and all

the way down the mountain valleys to Coniston village he did not speak

again. But Cynthia was used to his silences, and respected them.

To Ephraim Prescott, who, as the days went on, found it more and more

difficult to sew harness on account of his rheumatism, Jethro was not

only a great man but a hero. For Cynthia was vaguely troubled at having

found one discontent. She was wont to entertain Ephraim on the days when

his hands failed him, when he sat sunning himself before his door; and

she knew that he was honest.

“Who's b'en talkin' to you, Cynthia?” he cried. “Why, Jethro's the

biggest man I know, and the best. I don't like to think where some of us

would have b'en if he hadn't given us a lift.”

“But he has enemies, Cousin Eph,” said Cynthia, still troubled. “What

great man hain't?” exclaimed the soldier. “Jethro's enemies hain't worth

thinkin' about.”

The thought that Jethro had enemies was very painful to Cynthia, and she

wanted to know who they were that she might show them a proper contempt

if she met them. Lem Hallowell brushed aside the subject with his usual

bluff humor, and pinched her cheek and told her not to trouble her head;

Amanda Hatch dwelt upon the inherent weakness in the human race, and the

Rev. Mr. Satterlee faced the question once, during a history lesson. The

nation's heroes came into inevitable comparison with Jethro Bass. Was

Washington so good a man? and would not Jethro have been as great as the

Father of his Country if he had had the opportunities?

The answers sorely tried Mr. Satterlee's conscience, albeit he was not

a man of the world. It set him thinking. He liked Jethro, this man of

rugged power whose word had become law in the state. He knew best that

side of him which Cynthia saw; and--if the truth be told--as a native of

Coniston Mr. Satterlee felt in the bottom of his heart a certain pride

in Jethro. The minister's opinions well represented the attitude of his

time. He had not given thought to the subject--for such matters had came

to be taken for granted. A politician now was a politician, his ways and

standards set apart from those of other citizens, and not to be judged

by men without the pale of public life. Mr. Satterlee in his limited

vision did not then trace the matter to its source, did not reflect that

Jethro Bass himself was almost wholly responsible in that state for the

condition of politics and politicians. Coniston was proud of

Jethro, prouder of him than ever since his last great victory in the

Legislature, which brought the Truro Railroad through to Harwich and

settled their townsman more firmly than ever before in the seat of

power. Every statesman who drove into their little mountain village

and stopped at the tannery house made their blood beat faster. Senators

came, and representatives, and judges, and governors, “to git their

orders,” as Rias Richardson briefly put it, and Jethro could make or

unmake them at a word. Each was scanned from the store where Rias now

reigned supreme, and from the harness shop across the road. Some drove

away striving to bite from their lips the tell-tale smile which arose in

spite of them; others tried to look happy, despite the sentence of doom

to which they had listened.

Jethro Bass was indeed a great man to make such as these tremble or

rejoice. When he went abroad with Cynthia awheel or afoot, some took off

their hats--an unheard-of thing in Coniston. If he stopped at the store,

they scanned his face for the mood he was in before venturing their

remarks; if he lingered for a moment in front of the house of Amanda

Hatch, the whole village was advised of the circumstance before

nightfall.

Two personages worthy of mention here visited the tannery house during

the years that Cynthia lived with Jethro. The Honorable Heth Sutton

drove over from Clovelly attended by his prime minister, Mr. Bijah

Bixby. The Honorable Heth did not attempt to conceal the smile with

which he went away, and he stopped at the store long enough to enable

Rias to produce certain refreshments from depths unknown to the United

States Internal Revenue authorities. Mr. Sutton shook hands with

everybody, including Jake Wheeler. Well he might. He came to Coniston

a private citizen, and drove away to all intents and purposes a

congressman: the darling wish of his life realized after heaven knows

how many caucuses and conventions of disappointment, when Jethro had

judged it expedient for one reason or another that a north countryman

should go. By the time the pair reached Brampton, Chamberlain Bixby was

introducing his chief as Congressman Sutton, and by this title he was

known for many years to come.

Another day, when the snow lay in great billows on the ground and filled

the mountain valleys, when the pines were rusty from the long winter,

two other visitors drove to Coniston in a two-horse sleigh. The sun was

shining brightly, the wind held its breath, and the noon-day warmth was

almost like that of spring. Those who know the mountain country will

remember the joy of many such days. Cynthia, standing in the sun on the

porch, breathing deep of the pure air, recognized, as the sleigh drew

near, the somewhat portly gentleman driving, and the young woman beside

him regally clad in furs who looked patronizingly at the tannery house

as she took the reins. The young woman was Miss Cassandra Hopkins, and

the portly gentleman, the Honorable Alva himself, patron of the drama,

who had entered upon his governorship and now wished to be senator.

“Jethro Bass home?” he called out.

“Mr. Bass is home,” answered Cynthia. The girl in the sleigh murmured

something, laughing a little, and Cynthia flushed. Mr. Hopkins gave

a somewhat peremptory knock at the door and was admitted by Millicent

Skinner, but Cynthia stood staring at Cassandra in the sleigh, some

instinct warning her of a coming skirmish.

“Do you live here all the year round?”

“Of course,” said Cynthia.

Miss Cassandra shrugged as though that were beyond her comprehension.

“I'd die in a place like this,” she said. “No balls, or theatres.

Doesn't your father take you around the state?”

“My father's dead,” said Cynthia.

“Oh! Your name's Cynthia Wetherell, isn't it? You know Bob Worthington,

don't you? He's gone to Harvard now, but he was a great friend of mine

at Andover.”

Cynthia didn't answer. It would not be fair to say that she felt a pang,

though it might add to the romance of this narrative. But her dislike

for the girl in the sleigh decidedly increased. How was she, in her

inexperience, to know that the radiant beauty in furs was what the boys

at Phillips Andover called an “old stager.”

“So you live with Jethro Bass,” was Miss Cassandra's next remark. “He's

rich enough to take you round the state and give you everything you

want.”

“I have everything I want,” replied Cynthia.

“I shouldn't call living here having everything I wanted,” declared Miss

Hopkins, with a contemptuous glance at the tannery house.

“I suppose you wouldn't,” said Cynthia.

Miss Hopkins was nettled. She was out of humor that day, besides

she shared some of her father's political ambition. If he went to

Washington, she went too.

“Didn't you know Jethro Bass was rich?” she demanded, imprudently. “Why,

my father gave twenty thousand dollars to be governor, and Jethro Bass

must have got half of it.”

Cynthia's eyes were of that peculiar gray which, lighted by love or

anger, once seen, are never forgotten. One hand was on the dashboard of

the cutter, the other had seized the seat. Her voice was steady, and the

three words she spoke struck Miss Hopkins with startling effect.

Miss Hopkins's breath was literally taken away, and for once she found

no retort. Let it be said for her that this was a new experience with a

new creature. A demure country girl turn into a wildcat before her very

eyes! Perhaps it was as well for both that the door of the house opened

and the Honorable Alva interrupted their talk, and without so much as a

glance at Cynthia he got hurriedly into the sleigh and drove off. When

Cynthia turned, the points of color still high in her cheeks and the

light still ablaze in her eyes, she surprised Jethro gazing at her

from the porch, and some sorrow she felt rather than beheld stopped the

confession on her lips. It would be unworthy of her even to repeat such

slander, and the color surged again into her face for very shame of her

anger. Cassandra Hopkins had not been worthy of it.

Jethro did not speak, but slipped his hand into hers, and thus they

stood for a long time gazing at the snow fields between the pines on the

heights of Coniston.

The next summer, was the first which the painter--pioneer of summer

visitors there--spent at Coniston. He was an unsuccessful painter,

who became, by a process which he himself does not to-day completely

understand, a successful writer of novels. As a character, however, he

himself confesses his inadequacy, and the chief interest in him for the

readers of this narrative is that he fell deeply in love with Cynthia

Wetherell at nineteen. It is fair to mention in passing that other young

men were in love with Cynthia at this time, notably Eben Hatch--history

repeating itself. Once, in a moment of madness, Eben confessed his love,

the painter never did: and he has to this day a delicious memory which

has made Cynthia the heroine of many of his stories. He boarded with

Chester Perkins, and he was humored by the village as a harmless but

amiable lunatic.

The painter had never conceived that a New England conscience and a

temper of no mean proportions could dwell together in the body of a

wood nymph. When he had first seen Cynthia among the willows by Coniston

Water, he had thought her a wood nymph. But she scolded him for his

impropriety with so unerring a choice of words that he fell in love

with her intellect, too. He spent much of his time to the neglect of his

canvases under the butternut tree in front of Jethro's house trying to

persuade Cynthia to sit for her portrait; and if Jethro himself had not

overheard one of these arguments, the portrait never would have been

painted. Jethro focussed a look upon the painter.

“Er--painter-man, be you? Paint Cynthy's picture?”

“But I don't want to be painted, Uncle Jethro. I won't be painted!”

“H-how much for a good picture? Er--only want the best--only want the

best.”

The painter said a few things, with pardonable heat, to the

effect--well, never mind the effect. His remarks made no impression

whatever upon Jethro.

“Er---paint the picture--paint the picture, and then we'll talk about

the price. Er--wait a minute.”

He went into the house, and they heard him lumbering up the stairs.

Cynthia sat with her back to the artist, pretending to read, but

presently she turned to him.

“I'll never forgive you--never, as long as I live,” she cried, “and I

won't be painted!”

“N-not to please me, Cynthy?” It was Jethro's voice.

Her look softened. She laid down the book and went up to him on the

porch and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Do you really want it so much as all that, Uncle Jethro?” she said.

“Callate I do, Cynthy,” he answered. He held a bundle covered with

newspaper in his hand, he looked down at Cynthia.

He seated himself on the edge of the porch and for the moment seemed

lost in revery. Then he began slowly to unwrap the newspaper from the

bundle: there were five layers of it, but at length he disclosed a bolt

of cardinal cloth.

“Call this to mind, Cynthy?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smile.

“H-how's this for the dress, Mr. Painter-man?” said Jethro, with a pride

that was ill-concealed.

The painter started up from his seat and took the material in his hands

and looked at Cynthia. He belonged to a city club where he was popular

for his knack of devising costumes, and a vision of Cynthia as the

daughter of a Doge of Venice arose before his eyes. Wonder of wonders,

the daughter of a Doge discovered in a New England hill village! The

painter seized his pad and pencil and with a few strokes, guided by

inspiration, sketched the costume then and there and held it up to

Jethro, who blinked at it in astonishment. But Jethro was suspicious of

his own sensations.

“Er--well--Godfrey--g-guess that'll do.” Then came the involuntary:

“W-wouldn't a-thought you had it in you. How about it, Cynthy?” and he

held it up for her inspection.

“If you are pleased, it's all I care about, Uncle Jethro,” she answered,

and then, her face suddenly flushing, “You must promise me on your honor

that nobody in Coniston shall know about it, 'Mr. Painter-man'.”

After this she always called him “Mr. Painter-man,”--when she was

pleased with him.

So the cardinal cloth was come to its usefulness at last. It was

inevitable that Sukey Kittredge, the village seamstress, should be taken

into confidence. It was no small thing to take Sukey into confidence,

for she was the legitimate successor in more ways than one of Speedy

Bates, and much of Cynthia and the artist's ingenuity was spent upon

devising a form of oath which would hold Sukey silent. Sukey, however,

got no small consolation from the sense of the greatness of the trust

confided in her, and of the uproar she could make in Coniston if she

chose. The painter, to do him justice, was the real dressmaker, and did

everything except cut the cloth and sew it together. He sent to friends

of his in the city for certain paste jewels and ornaments, and one

day Cynthia stood in the old tannery shed--hastily transformed into a

studio--before a variously moved audience. Sukey, having adjusted the

last pin, became hysterical over her handiwork, Millicent Skinner stared

openmouthed, words having failed her for once, and Jethro thrust his

hands in his pockets in a quiet ecstasy of approbation.

“A-always had a notion that cloth'd set you off, Cynthy,” said he,

“er--next time I go to the state capital you come along--g-guess it'll

surprise 'em some.”

“I guess it would, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia, laughing.

Jethro postponed two political trips of no small importance to be

present at the painting of that picture, and he would sit silently by

the hour in a corner of the shed watching every stroke of the brush.

Never stood Doge's daughter in her jewels and seed pearls amidst

stranger surroundings,--the beam, and the centre post around which

the old white horse had toiled in times gone by, and all the piled-up,

disused machinery of forgotten days. And never was Venetian lady more

unconscious of her environment than Cynthia.

The portrait was of the head and shoulders alone, and when he had given

it the last touch, the painter knew that, for once in his life, he

had done a good thing. Never before; perhaps, had the fire of such

inspiration been given him. Jethro, who expressed himself in terms

(for him) of great enthusiasm, was for going to Boston immediately to

purchase a frame commensurate with the importance of such a work of art,

but the artist had his own views on that subject and sent to New York

for this also.

The day after the completion of the picture a rugged figure in rawhide

boots and coonskin cap approached Chester Perkins's house, knocked

at the door, and inquired for the “Painter-man.” It was Jethro. The

“Painter-man” forthwith went out into the rain behind the shed, where a

somewhat curious colloquy took place.

“G-guess I'm willin' to pay you full as much as it's worth,” said

Jethro, producing a cowhide wallet. “Er--what figure do you allow it

comes to with the frame?”

The artist was past taking offence, since Jethro had long ago become for

him an engrossing study.

“I will send you the bill for the frame, Mr. Bass,” he said, “the

picture belongs to Cynthia.”

“Earn your livin' by paintin', don't you--earn your livin'?”

The painter smiled a little bitterly.

“No,” he said, “if I did, I shouldn't be--alive. Mr. Bass, have you ever

done anything the pleasure of doing which was pay enough, and to spare?”

Jethro looked at him, and something very like admiration came into the

face that was normally expressionless.

He put up his wallet a little awkwardly, and held out his hand more

awkwardly.

“You be more of a feller than I thought for,” he said, and strode off

through the drizzle toward Coniston. The painter walked slowly to the

kitchen, where Chester Perkins and his wife were sitting down to supper.

“Jethro got a mortgage on you, too?” asked Chester.

The artist had his reward, for when the picture was hung at length in

the little parlor of the tannery house it became a source of pride to

Coniston second only to Jethro himself.

CHAPTER II

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?

CHAPTER III

“H-have a good time, Cynthy?” said Jethro, looking down into her face.

Love had wrought changes in Jethro; mightier changes than he suspected,

and the girl did not know how zealous were the sentries of that love,

how watchful they were, and how they told him often and again whether

her heart, too, was smiling.

“It was very gay,” said Cynthia.

“P-painter-man gay?” inquired Jethro.

Cynthia's eyes were on the orange line of the sunset over Coniston, but

she laughed a little, indulgently.

“Cynthy?”

“Yes.”

“Er--that Painter-man hain't such a bad fellow--w-why didn't you ask him

in to supper?”

“I'll give you three guesses,” said Cynthia, but she did not wait for

them. “It was because I wanted to be alone with you. Milly's gone out,

hasn't she?”

“G-gone a-courtin',” said Jethro.

She smiled, and went into the house to see whether Milly had done her

duty before she left. It was characteristic of Cynthia not to have

mentioned the subject which was agitating her mind until they were

seated on opposite sides of the basswood table.

“Uncle Jethro,” she said, “I thought you told Mr. Sutton to give Cousin

Eph the Brampton post-office? Do you trust Mr. Sutton?” she demanded

abruptly.

“Er--why?” said Jethro. “Why?”

“Because I don't,” she answered with conviction; “I think he's a big

fraud. He must have deceived you, Uncle Jethro. I can't see why you ever

sent him to Congress.”

Although Jethro was in no mood for mirth, he laughed in spite of

himself, for he was an American. His lifelong habit would have made him

defend Heth to any one but Cynthia.

“'D you see Heth, Cynthy?” he asked. “Yes,” replied the girl,

disgustedly, “I should say I did, but not to speak to him. He was

sitting on Mr. Worthington's porch, and I heard him tell Mr. Worthington

he would give the Brampton post-office to Dave Wheelock. I don't want

you to think that I was eavesdropping,” she added quickly; “I couldn't

help hearing it.”

Jethro did not answer.

“You'll make him give the post-office to Cousin Eph, won't you, Uncle

Jethro?”

“Yes;” said Jethro, very simply, “I will.” He meditated awhile, and then

said suddenly, “W-won't speak about it--will you, Cynthy?”

“You know I won't,” she answered.

Let it not be thought by any chance that Coniston was given over to

revelry and late hours, even on the Fourth of July. By ten o'clock the

lights were out in the tannery house, but Cynthia was not asleep. She

sat at her window watching the shy moon peeping over Coniston ridge, and

she was thinking, to be exact, of how much could happen in one short day

and how little in a long month. She was aroused by the sound of wheels

and the soft beat of a horse's hoofs on the dirt road: then came stifled

laughter, and suddenly she sprang up alert and tingling. Her own name

came floating to her through the darkness.

The next thing that happened will be long remembered in Coniston. A

tentative chord or two from a guitar, and then the startled village

was listening with all its might to the voices of two young men singing

“When I first went up to Harvard”--probably meant to disclose the

identity of the serenaders, as if that were necessary! Coniston, never

having listened to grand opera, was entertained and thrilled, and

thought the rendering of the song better on the whole than the church

choir could have done it, or even the quartette that sung at the

Brampton celebrations behind the flowers. Cynthia had her own views on

the subject.

There were five other songs--Cynthia remembers all of them, although she

would not confess such a thing. “Naughty, naughty Clara,” was another

one; the other three were almost wholly about love, some treating it

flippantly, others seriously--this applied to the last one, which had

many farewells in it. Then they went away, and the crickets and frogs on

Coniston Water took up the refrain.

Although the occurrence was unusual,--it might almost be said

epoch-making,--Jethro did not speak of it until they had reached the

sparkling heights of Thousand Acre Hill the next morning. Even then he

did not look at Cynthia.

“Know who that was last night, Cynthy?” he inquired, as though the

matter were a casual one.

“I believe,” said Cynthia heroically, “I believe it was a boy named

Somers Duncan-and Bob Worthington.”

“Er--Bob Worthington,” repeated Jethro, but said nothing more.

Of course Coniston, and presently Brampton, knew that Bob Worthington

had serenaded Cynthia--and Coniston and Brampton talked. It is

noteworthy that (with the jocular exceptions of Ephraim and Lem

Hallowell) they did not talk to the girl herself. The painter had long

ago discovered that Cynthia was an individual. She had good blood

in her: as a mere child she had shouldered the responsibility of her

father; she had a natural aptitude for books--a quality reverenced

in the community; she visited, as a matter of habit; the sick and the

unfortunate; and lastly (perhaps the crowning achievement) she had bound

Jethro Bass, of all men, with the fetters of love. Of course I have

ended up by making her a paragon, although I am merely stating what

people thought of her. Coniston decided at once that she was to marry

the heir to the Brampton Mills.

But the heir had gone West, and as the summer wore on, the gossip died

down. Other and more absorbing gossip took its place: never distinctly

formulated, but whispered; always wishing for more definite news that

never came. The statesmen drove out from Brampton to the door of the

tannery house, as usual, only it was remarked by astute observers and

Jake Wheeler that certain statesmen did not come who had been in the

habit of coming formerly. In short, those who made it a custom to

observe such matters felt vaguely a disturbance of some kind. The organs

of the people felt it, and became more guarded in their statements. What

no one knew, except Jake and a few in high places, was that a war of no

mean magnitude was impending.

There were three men in the State--and perhaps only three--who

realized from the first that all former political combats would pale

in comparison to this one to come. Similar wars had already started in

other states, and when at length they were fought out another twist

had been given to the tail of a long-suffering Constitution; political

history in the United States had to be written from an entirely new and

unforeseen standpoint, and the unsuspecting people had changed masters.

This was to be a war of extermination of one side or the other. No

quarter would be given or asked, and every weapon hitherto known to

politics would be used. Of the three men who realized this, and all that

would happen if one side or the other were victorious, one was Alexander

Duncan, another Isaac D. Worthington, and the third was Jethro Bass.

Jethro would never have been capable of being master of the state had he

not foreseen the time when the railroads, tired of paying tribute, would

turn and try to exterminate the boss. The really astonishing thing about

Jethro's foresight (known to few only) was that he perceived clearly

that the time would come when the railroads and other aggregations of

capital would exterminate the boss, or at least subserviate him. This

alone, the writer thinks, gives him some right to greatness. And Jethro

Bass made up his mind that the victory of the railroads, in his state

at least, should not come in his day. He would hold and keep what he had

fought all his life to gain.

Jethro knew, when Jake Wheeler failed to bring him a message back

from Clovelly, that the war had begun, and that Isaac D. Worthington,

commander of the railroad forces in the field, had captured his pawn,

the hill-Rajah. By getting through to Harwich, the Truro had made a

sad muddle in railroad affairs. It was now a connecting link; and its

president, the first citizen of Brampton, a man of no small importance

in the state. This fact was not lost upon Jethro, who perceived

clearly enough the fight for consolidation that was coming in the next

Legislature.

Seated on an old haystack on Thousand Acre Hill, that sits in turn on

the lap of Coniston, Jethro smiled as he reflected that the first

trial of strength in this mighty struggle was to be over (what the

unsuspecting world would deem a trivial matter) the postmastership of

Brampton. And Worthington's first move in the game would be to attempt

to capture for his faction the support of the Administration itself.

Jethro thought the view from Thousand Acre Hill, especially in

September, to be one of the sublimest efforts of the Creator. It was

September, first of the purple months in Coniston, not the red-purple of

the Maine coast, but the blue-purple of the mountain, the color of the

bloom on the Concord grape. His eyes, sweeping the mountain from

the notch to the granite ramp of the northern buttress, fell on the

weather-beaten little farmhouse in which he had lived for many years,

and rested lovingly on the orchard, where the golden early apples shone

among the leaves. But Jethro was not looking at the apples.

“Cynthy,” he called out abruptly, “h-how'd you like to go to

Washington?”

“Washington!” exclaimed Cynthia. “When?”

“N-now--to-morrow.” Then he added uneasily, “C-can't you get ready?”

Cynthia laughed.

“Why, I'll go to-night, Uncle Jethro,” she answered.

“Well,” he said admiringly, “you hain't one of them clutterin' females.

We can get some finery for you in New York, Cynthy. D-don't want any of

them town ladies to put you to shame. Er--not that they would,” he added

hastily--“not that they would.”

Cynthia climbed up beside him on the haystack.

“Uncle Jethro,” she said solemnly, “when you make a senator or a judge,

I don't interfere, do I?”

He looked at her uneasily, for there were moments when he could not for

the life of him make out her drift.

“N-no,” he assented, “of course not, Cynthy.”

“Why is it that I don't interfere?”

“I callate,” answered Jethro, still more uneasily, “I callate it's

because you're a woman.”

“And don't you think,” asked Cynthia, “that a woman ought to know what

becomes her best?”

Jethro reflected, and then his glance fell on her approvingly.

“G-guess you're right, Cynthy,” he said. “I always had some success in

dressin' up Listy, and that kind of set me up.”

On such occasions he spoke of his wife quite simply. He had been

genuinely fond of her, although she was no more than an episode in his

life. Cynthia smiled to herself as they walked through the orchard to

the place where the horse was tied, but she was a little remorseful.

This feeling, on the drive homeward, was swept away by sheer elation at

the prospect of the trip before her. She had often dreamed of the great

world beyond Coniston, and no one, not even Jethro, had guessed the

longings to see it which had at times beset her. Often she had dropped

her book to summon up a picture of what a great city was like, to

reconstruct the Boston of her early childhood. She remembered the Mall,

where she used to walk with her father, and the row of houses where

the rich dwelt, which had seemed like palaces. Indeed, when she read of

palaces, these houses always came to her mind. And now she was to behold

a palace even greater than these,--and the house where the President

himself dwelt. But why was Jethro going to Washington?

As if in answer to the question, he drove directly to the harness shop

instead of to the tannery house. Ephraim greeted them from within with a

cheery hail, and hobbled out and stood between the wheels of the buggy.

“That bridle bust again?” he inquired.

“Er--Ephraim,” said Jethro, “how long since you b'en away from

Coniston--how long?”

Ephraim reflected.

“I went to Harwich with Moses before that bad spell I had in March,” he

answered.

Cynthia smiled from pure happiness, for she began to see the drift of

things now.

“H-how long since you've b'en in foreign parts?” said Jethro.

“'Sixty-five,” answered Ephraim, with astonishing promptness.

“Er--like to go to Washington with us to-morrow like to go to

Washington?”

Ephraim gasped, even as Cynthia had.

“Washin'ton!” he ejaculated.

“Cynthy and I was thinkin' of takin' a little trip,” said Jethro, almost

apologetically, “and we kind of thought we'd like to have you with us.

Didn't we, Cynthy? Er--we might see General Grant,” he added meaningly.

Ephraim was a New Englander, and not an adept in expressing his

emotions. Both Cynthia and Jethro felt that he would have liked to have

said something appropriate if he had known how. What he actually said

was:--“What time to-morrow?”

“C-callate to take the nine o'clock from Brampton,” said Jethro.

“I'll report for duty at seven,” said Ephraim, and it was then he

squeezed the hand that he found in his. He watched them calmly enough

until they had disappeared in the barn behind the tannery house, and

then his thoughts became riotous. Rumors had been rife that summer,

prophecies of changes to come, and the resignation of the old man who

had so long been postmaster at Brampton was freely discussed--or rather

the matter of his successor. As the months passed, Ephraim had heard

David Wheelock mentioned with more and more assurance for the place. He

had had many nights when sleep failed him, but it was characteristic of

the old soldier that he had never once broached the subject since Jethro

had spoken to him two months before. Ephraim had even looked up the law

to see if he was eligible, and found that he was, since Coniston had

no post-office, and was within the limits of delivery of the Brampton

office.

The next morning Coniston was treated to a genuine surprise. After

loading up at the store, Lem Hallowell, instead of heading for Brampton,

drove to the tannery house, left his horses standing as he ran in, and

presently emerged with a little cowhide trunk that bore the letter W.

Following the trunk came a radiant Cynthia, following Cynthia, Jethro

Bass in a stove-pipe hat, with a carpetbag, and hobbling after Jethro,

Ephraim Prescott, with another carpet-bag. It was remarked in the buzz

of query that followed the stage's departure that Ephraim wore the blue

suit and the army hat with a cord around it which he kept for occasions.

Coniston longed to follow them, in spirit at least, but even Milly

Skinner did not know their destination.

Fortunately we can follow them. At Brampton station they got into the

little train that had just come over Truro Pass, and steamed, with many

stops, down the valley of Coniston Water until it stretched out into a

wide range of shimmering green meadows guarded by blue hills veiled in

the morning haze. Then, bustling Harwich, and a wait of half an hour

until the express from the north country came thundering through the

Gap; then a five-hours' journey down the broad river that runs southward

between the hills, dinner in a huge station amidst a pleasant buzz

of excitement and the ringing of many bells. Then into another train,

through valleys and factory towns and cities until they came, at

nightfall, to the metropolis itself.

Cynthia will always remember the awe with which that first view of New

York inspired her, and Ephraim confessed that he, too, had felt it, when

he had first seen the myriad lights of the city after the long, dusty

ride from the hills with his regiment. For all the flags and bunting it

had held in '61, Ephraim thought that city crueller than war itself.

And Cynthia thought so too, as she clung to Jethro's arm between the

carriages and the clanging street-cars, and looked upon the riches and

poverty around her. There entered her soul that night a sense of that

which is the worst cruelty of all--the cruelty of selfishness. Every

man going his own pace, seeking to gratify his own aims and desires,

unconscious and heedless of the want with which he rubs elbows. Her

natural imagination enhanced by her life among the hills, the girl

peopled the place in the street lights with all kinds of strange

evil-doers of whose sins she knew nothing, adventurers, charlatans,

alert cormorants, who preyed upon the unwary. She shrank closer to

Ephraim from a perfumed lady who sat next to her in the car, and was

thankful when at last they found themselves in the corridor of the Astor

House standing before the desk.

Hotel clerks, especially city ones, are supernatural persons. This one

knew Jethro, greeted him deferentially as Judge Bass, and dipped the

pen in the ink and handed it to him that he might register. By half-past

nine Cynthia was dreaming of Lem Hallowell and Coniston, and Lem was

driving a yellow street-car full of queer people down the road to

Brampton.

There were few guests in the great dining room when they breakfasted at

seven the next morning. New York, in the sunlight, had taken on a more

kindly expression, and those who were near by smiled at them and seemed

full of good-will. Persons smiled at them that day as they walked the

streets or stood spellbound before the shop windows, and some who saw

them felt a lump rise in their throats at the memories they aroused of

forgotten days: the three seemed to bring the very air of the hills with

them into that teeming place, and many who, had come to the city with

high hopes, now in the shackles of drudgery; looked after them. They

were a curious party, indeed: the straight, dark girl with the light in

her eyes and the color in her cheeks; the quaint, rugged figure of

the elderly man in his swallow-tail and brass buttons and square-toed,

country boots; and the old soldier hobbling along with the aid of his

green umbrella, clad in the blue he had loved and suffered for. Had they

remained until Sunday, they might have read an amusing account of their

visit,--of Jethro's suppers of crackers and milk at the Astor House,

of their progress along Broadway. The story was not lacking in pathos,

either, and in real human feeling, for the young reporter who wrote it

had come, not many years before, from the hills himself. But by that

time they had accomplished another marvellous span in their journey, and

were come to Washington itself.

CHAPTER IV

Cynthia was deprived, too, of that thrilling first view of the capital

from the train which she had pictured, for night had fallen when they

reached Washington likewise. As the train slowed down, she leaned a

little out of the window and looked at the shabby houses and shabby

streets revealed by the flickering lights in the lamp-posts. Finally

they came to a shabby station, were seized upon by a grinning darky

hackman, who would not take no for an answer, and were rattled away

to the hotel. Although he had been to Washington but once in his life

before, as a Lincoln elector, Jethro was greeted as an old acquaintance

by this clerk also.

“Glad to see you, Judge,” said he, genially. “Train late? You've come

purty nigh, missin' supper.”

A familiar of great men, the clerk was not offended when he got no

response to his welcome. Cynthia and Ephraim, intent on getting rid of

some of the dust of their journey, followed the colored hallboy up

the stairs. Jethro stood poring over the register, when a

distinguished-looking elderly gentleman with a heavy gray beard and eyes

full of shrewdness and humor paused at the desk to ask a question.

“Er--Senator?”

The senator (for such he was, although he did not represent Jethro's

state) turned and stared, and then held out his hand with unmistakable

warmth.

“Jethro Bass,” he exclaimed, “upon my word! What are you doing in

Washington?”

Jethro took the hand, but he did not answer the question.

“Er--Senator--when can I see the President?”

“Why,” answered the senator, somewhat taken aback, “why, to-night, if

you like. I'm going to the White House in a few minutes and I think I

can arrange it.”

“T-to-morrow afternoon--t-to-morrow afternoon?”

The senator cast his eye over the swallow-tail coat and stove-pipe hat

tilted back, and laughed.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed, “you haven't changed a bit. I'm beginning to

look like an old man; but that milk-and-crackers diet seems to keep you

young, Jethro. I'll fix it for to-morrow afternoon.”

“W-what time--two?”

“Well, I'll fix it for two to-morrow afternoon. I never could understand

you, Jethro; you don't do things like other men. Do I smell gunpowder?

What's up now--what do you want to see Grant about?”

Jethro cast his eye around the corridor, where a few men were taking

their ease after supper, and looked at the senator mysteriously.

“Any place where we can talk?” he demanded.

“We can go into the writing room and shut the door,” answered the

senator, more amused than ever.

When Cynthia came downstairs, Jethro was standing with the gentleman in

the corridor leading to the dining room, and she heard the gentleman say

as he took his departure:--“I haven't forgotten what you did for us in

'70, Jethro. I'll go right along and see to it now.”

Cynthia liked the gentleman's looks, and rightly surmised that he was

one of the big men of the nation. She was about to ask Jethro his name

when Ephraim came limping along and put the matter out of her mind, and

the three went into the almost empty dining room. There they were served

with elaborate attention by a darky waiter who had, in some mysterious

way, learned Jethro's name and title. Cynthia reflected with pride that

Jethro, too, was one of the nation's great men, who could get anything

he wanted simply by coming to the capital and asking for it.

Ephraim was very much excited on finding himself in Washington, the

sight of the place reviving in his mind a score of forgotten incidents

of the war. After supper they found seats in a corner of the corridor,

where a number of people were scattered about, smoking and talking.

It did not occur to Jethro or Cynthia, or even to Ephraim, that these

people were all of the male sex, and on the other hand the guests of

the hotel were apparently used once in a while to see a lady from the

country seated there. At any rate, Cynthia was but a young girl, and

her two companions, however unusual their appearance, were clearly most

respectable. Jethro, his hands in his pockets and his hat tilted, sat

on the small of his back rapt in meditation; Cynthia, her head awhirl,

looked around her with sparkling eyes; while Ephraim was smoking a cigar

he had saved for just such a festal occasion. He did not see the stout

man with the button and corded hat until he was almost on top of him.

“Eph Prescott, I believe!” exclaimed the stout one. “How be you,

Comrade?”

Heedless of his rheumatism, Ephraim sprang to his feet and dropped the

cigar, which the stout one picked up with much difficulty.

“Well,” said Ephraim, in a voice that shook with unwonted emotion, “you

kin skin me if it ain't Amasy Beard!” His eye travelled around Amasa's

figure. “Wouldn't a-knowed you, I swan, I wouldn't. Why, when I seen you

last, Amasy, your stomach was havin' all it could do to git hold of your

backbone.”

Cynthia laughed outright, and even Jethro sat up and smiled.

“When was it?” said Amasa, still clinging on to Ephraim's hand and

incidentally to the cigar, which Ephraim had forgotten; “Beaver Creek,

wahn't it?”

“July 10, 1863,” said Ephraim, instantly.

Gradually they reached a sitting position, the cigar was restored to

its rightful owner, and Mr. Beard was introduced, with some ceremony, to

Cynthia and Jethro. From Beaver Creek they began to fight the war over

again, backward and forward, much to Cynthia's edification, when her

attention was distracted by the entrance of a street band of wind

instruments. As the musicians made their way to another corner and

began tuning up, she glanced mischievously at Jethro, for she knew his

peculiarities by heart. One of these was a most violent detestation of

any but the best music. He had often given her this excuse, laughingly,

for not going to meeting in Coniston. How he had come by his love for

good music, Cynthia never knew--he certainly had not heard much of it.

Suddenly a great volume of sound filled the corridor, and the band

burst forth into what many supposed to be “The Watch on the Rhine.” Some

people were plainly delighted; the veterans, once recovered from their

surprise, shouted their reminiscences above the music, undismayed;

Jethro held on to himself until the refrain, when he began to squirm,

and as soon as the tune was done and the scattering applause had died

down, he reached over and grabbed Mr. Amasa Beard by the knee. Mr. Beard

did not immediately respond, being at that moment behind logworks facing

a rebel charge; he felt vaguely that some one was trying to distract his

attention, and in some lobe of his brain was registered the fact that

that particular knee had gout in it. Jethro increased the pressure, and

then Mr. Beard abandoned his logworks and swung around with a snort of

pain.

“H-how much do they git for that noise--h-how much do they git?”

Mr. Beard tenderly lifted the hand from his knee and stared at Jethro

with his mouth open, like a man aroused from a bad dream.

“Who? What noise?” he demanded.

“The Dutchmen,” said Jethro. “H-how much do they git for that noise?”

“Oh!” Mr. Beard glanced at the band and began to laugh. He thought

Jethro a queer customer, no doubt, but he was a friend of Comrade

Prescott's. “By gum!” said Mr. Beard, “I thought for a minute a rebel

chain-shot had took my leg off. Well, sir, I guess that band gets about

two dollars. They've come in here every evening since I've been at the

hotel.”

“T-two dollars? Is that the price? Er--you say two dollars is their

price?”

“Thereabouts,” answered Mr. Beard, uneasily. Veteran as he was, Jethro's

appearance and earnestness were a little alarming.

“You say two dollars is their price?”

“Thereabouts,” shouted Mr. Beard, seating himself on the edge of his

chair.

But Jethro paid no attention to him. He rose, unfolding by degrees his

six feet two, and strode diagonally across the corridor toward the band

leader. Conversation was hushed at the sight of his figure, a titter ran

around the walls, but Jethro was oblivious to these things. He drew a

great calfskin wallet from an inside pocket of his coat, and the band

leader, a florid German, laid down his instrument and made an elaborate

bow. Jethro waited until the man had become upright and then held out a

two-dollar bill.

“Is that about right for the performance?” he said “is that about

right?”

“Ja, mein Herr,” said the man, nodding vociferously.

“I want to pay what's right--I want to pay what's right,” said Jethro.

“I thank you very much, sir,” said the leader, finding his English, “you

haf pay for all.”

“P-paid for everything--everything to-night?” demanded Jethro.

The leader spread out his hands.

“You haf pay for one whole evening,” said he, and bowed again.

“Then take it, take it,” said Jethro, pushing the bill into the man's

palm; “but don't you come back to-night--don't you come back to-night.”

The amazed leader stared at Jethro--and words failed him. There was

something about this man that compelled him to obey, and he gathered

up his followers and led the way silently out of the hotel. Roars of

laughter and applause arose on all sides; but Jethro was as one who

heard them not as he made his way back to his seat again.

“You did a good job, my friend,” said Mr. Beard, approvingly. “I'm going

to take Eph Prescott down the street to see some of the boys. Won't you

come, too?”

Mr. Beard doubtless accepted it as one of the man's eccentricities that

Jethro did not respond to him, for without more ado he departed arm in

arm with Ephraim. Jethro was looking at Cynthia, who was staring toward

the desk at the other end of the corridor, her face flushed, and her

fingers closed over the arms of her chair. It never occurred to Jethro

that she might have been embarrassed.

“W-what's the matter, Cynthy?” he asked, sinking into the chair beside

her.

Her breath caught sharply, but she tried to smile at him. He did not

discover what was the matter until long afterward, when he recalled

that evening to mind. Jethro was a man used to hotel corridors, used to

sitting in an attitude that led the unsuspecting to believe he was half

asleep; but no person of note could come or go whom he did not remember.

He had seen the distinguished party arrive at the desk, preceded by a

host of bell-boys with shawls and luggage. On the other hand, some of

the distinguished party had watched the proceeding of paying off the

band with no little amusement. Miss Janet Duncan had giggled audibly,

her mother had smiled, while her father and Mr. Worthington had

pretended to be deeply occupied with the hotel register. Somers was not

there. Bob Worthington laughed heartily with the rest until his eye,

travelling down the line of Jethro's progress, fell on Cynthia, and now

he was striding across the floor toward them. And even in the horrible

confusion of that moment Cynthia had a vagrant thought that his clothes

had an enviable cut and became him remarkably.

“Well, of all things, to find you here!” he cried; “this is the best

luck that ever happened. I am glad to see you. I was going to steal away

to Brampton for a couple of days before the term opened, and I meant to

look you up there. And Mr. Bass,” said Bob, turning to Jethro, “I'm glad

to see you too.”

Jethro looked at the young man and smiled and held out his hand. It was

evident that Bob was blissfully unaware that hostilities between powers

of no mean magnitude were about to begin; that the generals themselves

were on the ground, and that he was holding treasonable parley with the

enemy. The situation appealed to Jethro, especially as he glanced at the

backs of the two gentlemen facing the desk. These backs seemed to him

full of expression. “Th-thank you, Bob, th-thank you,” he answered.

“I like the way you fixed that band,” said Bob; “I haven't laughed as

much for a year. You hate music, don't you? I hope you'll forgive that

awful noise we made outside of your house last July, Mr. Bass.”

“You--you make that noise, Bob, you--you make that?”

“Well,” said Bob, “I'm afraid I did most of it. There was another fellow

that helped some and played the guitar. It was pretty bad,” he added,

with a side glance at Cynthia, “but it was meant for a compliment.”

“Oh,” said she, “it was meant for a compliment, was it?”

“Of course,” he answered, glad of the opportunity to turn his attention

entirely to her. “I was for slipping away right after supper, but my

father headed us off.”

“Slipping away?” repeated Cynthia.

“You see, he had a kind of a reception and fireworks afterward. We

didn't get away till after nine, and then I thought I'd have a lecture

when I got home.”

“Did you?” asked Cynthia.

“No,” said Bob, “he didn't know where I'd been.”

Cynthia felt the blood rush to her temples, but by habit and instinct

she knew when to restrain herself.

“Would it have made any difference to him where you had been?” she asked

calmly enough.

Bob had a presentiment that he was on dangerous ground. This new and

self-possessed Cynthia was an enigma to him--certainly a fascinating

enigma.

“My father world have thought I was a fool to go off serenading,” he

answered, flushing. Bob did not like a lie; he knew that his father

would have been angry if he had heard he had gone to Coniston; he felt,

in the small of his back, that his father was angry mow, and guessed the

reason.

She regarded him gravely as he spoke, and then her eyes left his face

and became fixed upon an object at the far end of the corridor. Bob

turned in time to see Janet Duncan swing on her heel and follow her

mother up the stairs. He struggled to find words to tide over what he

felt was an awkward moment.

“We've had a fine trip;” he said, “though I should much rather have

stayed at home. The West is a wonderful country, with its canons and

mountains and great stretches of plain. My father met us in Chicago, and

we came here. I don't know why, because Washington's dead at this time

of the year. I suppose it must be on account of politics.” Looking at

Jethro with a sudden inspiration, “I hadn't thought of that.”

Jethro had betrayed no interest in the conversation. He was seated,

as usual, on the small of his back. But he saw a young man of short

stature, with a freckled face and close-cropped, curly red hair, come

into the corridor by another entrance; he saw Isaac D. Worthington draw

him aside and speak to him, and he saw the young man coming towards

them.

“How do you do, Miss Wetherell?” cried the young man joyously, while

still ten feet away, “I'm awfully glad to see you, upon my word; I am.

How long are you going to be in Washington?”

“I don't know, Mr. Duncan,” answered Cynthia.

“Did Worthy know you were here?” demanded Mr. Duncan, suspiciously.

“He did when he saw me,” said Cynthia, smiling.

“Not till then?” asked Mr. Duncan. “Say, Worthy; your father wants to

see you right away. I'm going to be in Washington a day or two--will you

go walking with me to-morrow morning, Miss Wetherell?”

“She's going walking with me,” said Bob, not in the best of tempers.

“Then I'll go along,” said Mr. Duncan, promptly.

By this time Cynthia got up and was holding out her hand to Bob

Worthington. “I'm not going walking with either of you,” she said

“I have another engagement. And I think I'll have to say good night,

because I'm very tired.”

“When can I see you?” Both the young men asked the question at once.

“Oh, you'll have plenty of chances,” she answered, and was gone.

The young men looked at each other somewhat blankly; and then down at

Jethro, who did not seem to know that they were there, and then they

made their way toward the desk. But Isaac D. Worthington and his friends

had disappeared.

A few minutes later the distinguished-looking senator with whom Jethro

had been in conversation before supper entered the hotel. He seemed

preoccupied, and heedless of the salutations he received; but when he

caught sight of Jethro he crossed the corridor rapidly and sat down

beside him. Jethro did not move. The corridor was deserted now, save for

the two.

“Bass,” began the senator, “what's the row up in your state?”

“H-haven't heard of any row,” said Jethro.

“What did you come to Washington for?” demanded the senator, somewhat

sharply.

“Er--vacation,” said Jethro, “vacation--to show my gal, Cynthy, the

capital.”

“Now see here, Bass,” said the senator, “I don't forget what happened

in '70. I don't object to wading through a swarm of bees to get a little

honey for a friend, but I think I'm entitled to know why he wants it.”

“G-got the honey?” asked Jethro.

The senator took off his hat and wiped his brow, and then he stole a

look at Jethro, with apparently barren results.

“Jethro,” he said, “people say you run that state of yours right up

to the handle. What's all this trouble about a two-for-a-cent

postmastership?”

“H-haven't heard of any trouble,” said Jethro.

“Well, there is trouble,” said the senator, losing patience at last.

“When I told Grant you were here and mentioned that little Brampton

matter to him,--it didn't seem much to me,--the bees began to fly pretty

thick, I can tell you. I saw right away that somebody had been stirring

'em up. It looks to me, Jethro,” said the senator gravely, “it looks to

me as if you had something of a rebellion on your hands.”

“W-what'd Grant say?” Jethro inquired.

“Well, he didn't say a great deal--he isn't much of a talker, you know,

but what he did say was to the point. It seems that your man, Prescott,

doesn't come from Brampton, in the first place, and Grant says that

while he likes soldiers, he hasn't any use for the kind that want to

lie down and make the government support 'em. I'll tell you what I

found out. Worthington and Duncan wired the President this morning, and

they've gone up to the White House now. They've got a lot of railroad

interests back of them, and they've taken your friend Sutton into camp;

but I managed to get the President to promise not to do anything until

he saw you tomorrow afternoon at two.”

Jethro sat silent so long that the senator began to think he wasn't

going to answer him at all. In his opinion, he had told Jethro some very

grave facts.

“W-when are you going to see the President again?” said Jethro, at last.

“To-morrow morning,” answered the senator; “he wants me to walk over

with him to see the postmaster-general, who is sick in bed.”

“What time do you leave the White House?--”

“At eleven,” said the senator, very much puzzled.

“Er--Grant ever pay any attention to an old soldier on the street?”

The senator glanced at Jethro, and a twinkle came into his eye.

“Sometimes he has been known to,” he answered.

“You--you ever pay any attention to an old soldier on the street?”

Then the senator's eyes began to snap.

“Sometimes I have been known to.”

“Er--suppose an old soldier was in front of the White House at eleven

o'clock--an old soldier with a gal suppose?”

The senator saw the point, and took no pains to restrain his admiration.

“Jethro,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder, “I'm willing to bet a

few thousand dollars you'll run your state for a while yet.”

CHAPTER V

“Heard you say you was goin' for a walk this morning, Cynthy,” Jethro

remarked, as they sat at breakfast the next morning.

“Why, of course,” answered Cynthia, “Cousin Eph and I are going out to

see Washington, and he is to show me the places that he remembers.” She

looked at Jethro appealingly. “Aren't you coming with us?” she asked.

“M-meet you at eleven, Cynthy,” he said.

“Eleven!” exclaimed Cynthia in dismay, “that's almost dinner-time.”

“M-meet you in front of the White House at eleven,” said Jethro, “plumb

in front of it, under a tree.”

By half-past seven, Cynthia and Ephraim with his green umbrella were

in the street, but it would be useless to burden these pages with a

description of all the sights they saw, and with the things that Ephraim

said about them, and incidentally about the war. After New York, much of

Washington would then have seemed small and ragged to any one who lacked

ideals and a national sense, but Washington was to Cynthia as Athens

to a Greek. To her the marble Capitol shining on its hill was a sacred

temple, and the great shaft that struck upward through the sunlight,

though yet unfinished, a fitting memorial to him who had led the

barefoot soldiers of the colonies through ridicule to victory. They

looked up many institutions and monument, they even had time to go to

the Navy Yard, and they saved the contemplation of the White House till

the last. The White House, which Cynthia thought the finest and most

graceful mansion in all the world, in its simplicity and dignity, a

fitting dwelling for the chosen of the nation. Under the little tree

which Jethro had mentioned, Ephraim stood bareheaded before the walls

which had sheltered Lincoln, which were now the home of the greatest

of his captains, Grant: and wondrous emotions played upon the girl's

spirit, too, as she gazed. They forgot the present in the past and the

future, and they did not see the two gentlemen who had left the portico

some minutes before and were now coming toward them along the sidewalk.

The two gentlemen, however, slowed their steps involuntarily at a

sight which was uncommon, even in Washington. The girl's arm was in the

soldier's, and her face, which even in repose had a true nobility, now

was alight with an inspiration that is seen but seldom in a lifetime. In

marble, could it have been wrought by a great sculptor, men would have

dreamed before it of high things.

The two, indeed, might have stood for a group, the girl as the spirit,

the man as the body which had risked and suffered all for it, and still

held it fast. For the honest face of the soldier reflected that spirit

as truly as a mirror.

Ephraim was aroused from his thoughts by Cynthia nudging his arm. He

started, put on his hat, and stared very hard at a man smoking a cigar

who was standing before him. Then he stiffened and raised his hand in

an involuntary salute. The man smiled. He was not very tall, he had a

closely trimmed light beard that was growing a little gray, he wore a

soft hat something like Ephraim's, a black tie on a white pleated shirt,

and his eyeglasses were pinned to his vest. His eyes were all kindness.

“How do you do, Comrade?” he said, holding out his hand.

“General,” said Ephraim, “Mr. President,” he added, correcting himself,

“how be you?” He shifted the green umbrella, and shook the hand timidly

but warmly.

“General will do,” said the President, with a smiling glance at the tall

senator beside him, “I like to be called General.”

“You've growed some older, General,” said Ephraim, scanning his face

with a simple reverence and affection, “but you hain't changed so much

as I'd a thought since I saw you whittlin' under a tree beside the Lacy

house in the Wilderness.”

“My duty has changed some,” answered the President, quite as simply. He

added with a touch of sadness, “I liked those days best, Comrade.”

“Well, I guess!” exclaimed Ephraim, “you're general over everything now,

but you're not a mite bigger man to me than you was.”

The President took the compliment as it was meant.

“I found it easier to run an army than I do to run a country,” he said.

Ephraim's blue eyes flamed with indignation.

“I don't take no stock in the bull-dogs and the gold harness at Long

Branch and--and all them lies the dratted newspapers print about

you,”--Ephraim hammered his umbrella on the pavement as an expression of

his feelings,--“and what's more, the people don't.”

The President glanced at the senator again, and laughed a little,

quietly.

“Thank you; Comrade,” he said.

“You're a plain, common man,” continued Ephraim, paying the highest

compliment known to rural New England; “the people think a sight of you,

or they wouldn't hev chose you twice, General.”

“So you were in the Wilderness?” said the President, adroitly changing

the subject.

“Yes, General. I was pressed into orderly duty the first day--that's

when I saw you whittlin' under the tree, and you didn't seem to have no

more consarn than if it had been a company drill. Had a cigar then, too.

But the second day; May the 6th, I was with the regiment. I'll never

forget that day,” said Ephraim, warming to the subject, “when we was

fightin' Ewell up and down the Orange Plank Road, playin' hide-and-seek

with the Johnnies in the woods. You remember them woods, General?”

The President nodded, his cigar between his teeth. He looked as though

the scene were coming back to him.

“Never seen such woods,” said Ephraim, “scrub oak and pine and cedars

and young stuff springin' up until you couldn't see the length of a

company, and the Rebs jumpin' and hollerin' around and shoutin' every

which way. After a while a lot of them saplings was mowed off clean by

the bullets, and then the woods caught afire, and that was hell.”

“Were you wounded?” asked the President, quickly.

“I was hurt some, in the hip,” answered Ephraim.

“Some!” exclaimed Cynthia, “why, you have walked lame ever since.” She

knew the story by heart, but the recital of it never failed to stir her

blood! “They carried him out just as he was going to be burned up, in a

blanket hung from rifles, and he was in the hospital nine months, and

had to come home for a while.”

“Cynthy,” said Ephraim in gentle reproof, “I callate the General don't

want to hear that.”

Cynthia flushed, but the President looked at her with an added interest.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “that seems to me the vital part of the

story. If I remember rightly,” he added, turning again to Ephraim, “the

Fifth Corps was on the Orange turnpike. What brigade were you in?”

“The third brigade of the First Division,” answered Ephraim.

“Griffin's,” said the President. “There were several splendid New

England regiments in that brigade. I sent them with Griffin to help

Sheridan at Five Forks.”

“I was thar too,” cried Ephraim.

“What!” said the President, “with the lame hip?”

“Well, General, I went back, I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away

from the boys--just couldn't. I didn't limp as bad then as I do now. I

wahn't much use anywhere else, and I had l'arned to fight. Five Forks!”

exclaimed Ephraim. “I call that day to mind as if it was yesterday. I

remember how the boys yelled when they told us we was goin' to Sheridan.

We got started about daylight, and it took us till four o'clock in

the afternoon to git into position. The woods was just comin' a little

green, and the white dogwoods was bloomin' around. Sheridan, he galloped

up to the line with that black horse of his'n and hollered out, 'Come

on, boys, go in at a clean, jump or You won't ketch one of 'em.' You

know how men, even veterans like that Fifth Corps, sometimes hev to be

pushed into a fight. There was a man from a Maine regiment got shot in

the head fust thing. 'I'm killed,' said he. 'Oh, no, you're not,' says

Sheridan, 'pickup your gun and go for 'em.' But he was killed. Well,

we went for 'em through all the swamps and briers and everything, and

Sheridan, thar in front, had got the battle-flag and was rushin' round

with it swearin' and prayin' and shoutin', and the first thing we knowed

he'd jumped his horse clean over their logworks and landed right on top

of the Johnnie's.”

“Yes,” said the President, “that was Sheridan, sure enough.”

“Mr. President,” said the senator, who stood by wonderingly while

General Grant had lost himself in this conversation, “do you realize

what time it is?”

“Yes, yes,” said the President, “we must go on. What was your rank,

Comrade?”

“Sergeant, General.”

“I hope you have got a good pension for that hip,” said the President,

kindly. It may be well to add that he was not always so incautious, but

this soldier bore the unmistakable stamp of simplicity and sincerity on

his face.

Ephraim hesitated.

“He never would ask for a pension, General,” said Cynthia.

“What!” exclaimed the President in real astonishment, “are you so rich

as all that?” and he glanced at the green umbrella.

“Well, General,” said Ephraim, uncomfortably, “I never liked the notion

of gittin' paid for it. You see, I was what they call a war-Democrat.”

“Good Lord!” said the President, but more to himself. “What do you do

now?”

“I callate to make harness,” answered Ephraim.

“Only he can't make it any more on account of his rheumatism, Mr.

President,” Cynthia put in.

“I think you might call me General, too,” he said, with the grace that

many simple people found inherent in him. “And may I ask your name,

young lady?”

“Cynthia Wetherell--General,” she said smiling.

“That sounds more natural,” said the President, and then to Ephraim,

“Your daughter?”

“I couldn't think more of her if she was,” answered Ephraim; “Cynthy's

pulled me through some tight spells. Her mother was my cousin, General.

My name's Prescott--Ephraim Prescott.”

“Ephraim Prescott!” ejaculated the President, sharply, taking his cigar

from his mouth, “Ephraim Prescott!”

“Prescott--that's right--Prescott, General,” repeated Ephraim, sorely

puzzled by these manifestations of amazement.

“What did you come to Washington for?” asked the President.

“Well, General, I kind of hate to tell you--I didn't intend to mention

that. I guess I won't say nothin' about it,” he added, “we've had such

a sociable time. I've always b'en a little mite ashamed of it, General,

ever since 'twas first mentioned.”

“Good Lord!” said the President again, and then he looked at Cynthia.

“What is it, Miss Cynthia?” he asked.

It was now Cynthia's turn to be a little confused.

“Uncle Jethro--that is, Mr. Bass” (the President nodded), “went to

Cousin Eph when he couldn't make harness any more and said he'd give him

the Brampton post-office.”

The President's eyes met the senator's, and both gentlemen laughed.

Cynthia bit her lip, not seeing any cause for mirth in her remark, while

Ephraim looked uncomfortable and mopped the perspiration from his brow.

“He said he'd give it to him, did he?” said the President. “Is Mr. Bass

your uncle?”

“Oh, no, General,” replied Cynthia, “he's really no relation. He's done

everything for me, and I live with him since my father died. He was

going to meet us here,” she continued, looking around hurriedly, “I'm

sure I can't think what's kept him.”

“Mr. President, we are half an hour late already,” said the senator,

hurriedly.

“Well, well,” said the President, “I suppose I must go. Good-by, Miss

Cynthia,” said he, taking the girl's hand warmly. “Good-by, Comrade. If

ever you want to see General Grant, just send in your name. Good-by.”

The President lifted his hat politely to Cynthia and passed. He said

something to the senator which they did not hear, and the senator

laughed heartily. Ephraim and Cynthia watched them until they were out

of sight.

“Godfrey!” exclaimed Ephraim, “they told me he was hard to talk to. Why,

Cynthy, he's as simple as a child.”

“I've always thought that all great men must be simple,” said Cynthia;

“Uncle Jethro is.”

“To think that the President of the United States stood talkin' to us on

the sidewalk for half an hour,” said Ephraim, clutching Cynthia's arm.

“Cynthy, I'm glad we didn't press that post-office matter it was worth

more to me than all the post-offices in the Union to have that talk with

General Grant.”

They waited some time longer under the tree, happy in the afterglow of

this wonderful experience. Presently a clock struck twelve.

“Why, it's dinner-time, Cynthy,” said Ephraim. “I guess Jethro haint'

a-comin'--must hev b'en delayed by some of them politicians.”

“It's the first time I ever knew him to miss an appointment,” said

Cynthia, as they walked back to the hotel.

Jethro was not in the corridor, so they passed on to the dining room and

looked eagerly from group to group. Jethro was not there, either, but

Cynthia heard some one laughing above the chatter of the guests,

and drew back into the corridor. She had spied the Duncans and the

Worthingtons making merry by themselves at a corner table, and it was

Somers's laugh that she heard. Bob, too, sitting next to Miss Duncan,

was much amused about something. Suddenly Cynthia's exaltation over the

incident of the morning seemed to leave her, and Bob Worthington's words

which she had pondered over in the night came back to her with renewed

force. He did not find it necessary to steal away to see Miss Duncan.

Why should he have “stolen away” to see her? Was it because she was a

country girl, and poor? That was true; but on the other hand, did she

not live in the sunlight, as it were, of Uncle Jethro's greatness, and

was it not an honor to come to his house and see any one? And why had

Mr. Worthington turned hid back on Jethro, and sent for Bob when he

was talking to them? Cynthia could not understand these things, and her

pride was sorely wounded by them.

“Perhaps Jethro's in his room,” suggested Ephraim.

And indeed they found him there seated on the bed, poring over some

newspapers, and both in a breath demanded where he had been. Ephraim did

not wait for an answer.

“We seen General Grant, Jethro,” he cried; “while we was waitin' for

you under the tree he come up and stood talkin' to us half an hour. Full

half an hour, wahn't it, Cynthy?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Cynthia, forgetting her own grievance at the

recollection; “only it didn't seem nearly that long.”

“W-want to know!” exclaimed Jethro, in astonishment, putting down his

paper. “H-how did it happen?”

“Come right up and spoke to us,” said Ephraim, in a tone he might have

used to describe a miracle, “jest as if he was common folk. Never had

a more sociable talk with anybody. Why, there was times when I clean

forgot he was President of the United States. The boys won't believe it

when we git back at Coniston.”

And Ephraim, full of his subject, began to recount from the beginning

the marvellous affair, occasionally appealing to Cynthia for

confirmation. How he had lived over again the Wilderness and Five Forks;

how the General had changed since he had seen him whittling under a

tree; how the General had asked about his pension.

“D-didn't mention the post-office, did you, Ephraim?”

“Why, no,” replied Ephraim, “I didn't like to exactly. You see, we was

havin' such a good time I didn't want to spoil it, but Cynthy--”

“I told the President about it, Uncle Jethro; I told him how sick Cousin

Eph had been, and that you were going to give him the postmastership

because he couldn't work any more with his hands.”

The training of a lifetime had schooled Jethro not to betray surprise.

“K-kind of mixin' up in politics, hain't you, Cynthy? P-President say

he'd give you the postmastership, Eph?” he asked.

“He didn't say nothin' about it, Jethro,” answered Ephraim slowly; “I

callate he has other views for the place, and he was too kind to come

right out with 'em and spoil our mornin'. You see, Jethro, I wahn't only

a sergeant, and Brampton's gittin' to be a big town.”

“But, surely,” cried Cynthia, who could scarcely wait for him to finish,

“surely you're going to give Cousin Eph the post-office, aren't you,

Uncle Jethro? All you have to do is to tell the President that you want

it for him. Why, I had an idea that we came down for that.”

“Now, Cynthy,” Ephraim put in, deprecatingly.

“Who else would get the post-office?” asked Cynthia. “Surely you're not

going to let Mr. Sutton have it for Dave Wheelock!”

“Er--Cynthy,” said Jethro, slyly, “w-what'd you say to me once about

interferin' with women's fixin's?”

Cynthia saw the point. She perceived also that the mazes of politics

were not to be understood by a young woman, of even by an old soldier.

She laughed and seized Jethro's hands and pulled him from the bed.

“We won't get any dinner unless we hurry,” she said.

When they reached the dining room she was relieved to discover that the

party in the corner had gone.

In the afternoon there were many more sights to be viewed, but they were

back in the hotel again by half-past four, because Ephraim's Wilderness

leg had its limits of endurance. Jethro (though he had not mentioned the

fact to them) had gone to the White House.

It was during the slack hours that our friend the senator, whose

interest in the matter of the Brampton post office out-weighed for the

present certain grave problems of the Administration in which he was

involved, hurried into the Willard Hotel, looking for Jethro Bass. He

found him without much trouble in his usual attitude, occupying one of

the chairs in the corridor.

“Well,” exclaimed the senator, with a touch of eagerness he did not

often betray, “did you see Grant? How about your old soldier? He's one

of the most delightful characters I ever met--simple as a child,” and

he laughed at the recollection. “That was a masterstroke of yours, Bass,

putting him under that tree with that pretty girl. I doubt if you ever

did anything better in your life. Did they tell you about it?”

“Yes,” said Jethro, “they told me about it.”

“And how about Grant? What did he say to you?”

“W-well, I went up there and sent in my card. D-didn't have to wait a

great while, as I was pretty early, and soon he came in, smokin' a black

cigar, head bent forward a little. D-didn't ask me to sit down, and what

talkin' we did we did standin'. D-didn't ask me what he could do for

me, what I wanted, or anything else, but just stood there, and I stood

there. F-fust time in my life I didn't know how to commerce or what to

say; looked--looked at me--didn't take his eye off me. After a while I

got started, somehow; told him I was there to ask him to appoint Ephraim

Prescott to the Brampton postoffice--t-told him all about Ephraim from

the time he was locked in the cradle--never was so hard put that I

could remember. T-told him how Ephraim shook butternuts off my

fathers tree--for all I know. T-told him all about Ephraim's war

record--leastways all I could call to mind--and, by Godfrey! before

I got through, I wished I'd listened to more of it. T-told him

about Ephraim's Wilderness bullets--t-told him about Ephraim's

rheumatism,--how it bothered him when he went to bed and when he got up

again.”

If Jethro had glanced at his companion, he would have seen the senator

was shaking with silent and convulsive laughter.

“All the time I talked to him I didn't see a muscle move in his face,”

Jethro continued, “so I started in again, and he looked--looked--looked

right at me. W-wouldn't wink--don't think he winked once while I was in

that room. I watched him as close as I could, and I watched to see if a

muscle moved or if I was makin' any impression. All he would do was to

stand there and look--look--look. K-kept me there ten minutes and never

opened his mouth at all. Hardest man to talk to I ever met--never see a

man before but what I could get him to say somethin', if it was only a

cuss word. I got tired of it after a while, made up my mind that I had

found one man I couldn't move. Then what bothered me was to get out of

that room. If I'd a had a Bible I believe I'd a read it to him. I didn't

know what to say, but I did say this after a while:--“'W-well, Mr.

President, I guess I've kept you long enough--g-guess you're a pretty

busy man. H-hope you'll give Mr. Prescott that postmastership. Er--er

good-by.'

“'Wait, sir,' he said.

“'Yes,' I said, 'I-I'll wait.'

“Thought you was goin' to give him that postmastership, Mr. Bass,' he

said.”

At this point the senator could not control his mirth, and the empty

corridor echoed his laughter.

“By thunder! what did you say to that?”

“Er--I said, 'Mr. President, I thought I was until a while ago.'

“'And when did you change your mind?' says he.”

Then he laughed a little--not much--but he laughed a little.

“'I understand that your old soldier lives within the limits of the

delivery of the Brampton office,' said he.”

“'That's correct, Mr. President,' said I.”

“'Well,' said he, 'I will app'int him postmaster at Brampton, Mr.

Bass.'”

“'When?' said I.”

Then he laughed a little more.

“I'll have the app'intment sent to your hotel this afternoon,' said he.”

“'Then I said to him, 'This has come out full better than I expected,

Mr. President. I'm much obliged to you.' He didn't say nothin' more, so

I come out.”

“Grant didn't say anything about Worthington or Duncan, did he?” asked

the senator, curiously, as he rose to go.

“G-guess I've told you all he said,” answered Jethro; “'twahn't a great

deal.”

The senator held out his hand.

“Bass,” he said, laughing, “I believe you came pretty near meeting your

match. But if Grant's the hardest man in the Union to get anything out

of, I've a notion who's the second.” And with this parting shot the

senator took his departure, chuckling to himself as he went.

As has been said, there were but few visitors in Washington at

this time, and the hotel corridor was all but empty. Presently a

substantial-looking gentleman came briskly in from the street, nodding

affably to the colored porters and bell-boys, who greeted him by name.

He wore a flowing Prince Albert coat, which served to dignify a growing

portliness, and his coal-black whiskers glistened in the light. A voice,

which appeared to come from nowhere in particular, brought the gentleman

up standing.

“How be you, Heth?”

It may not be that Mr. Sutton's hand trembled, but the ashes of his

cigar fell to the floor. He was not used to visitations, and for the

instant, if the truth be told, he was not equal to looking around.

“Like Washington, Heth--like Washington?”

Then Mr. Sutton turned. His presence of mind, and that other presence of

which he was so proud, seemed for the moment to have deserted him.

“S-stick pretty close to business, Heth, comin' down here out of session

time. S-stick pretty close to business, don't you, since the people sent

you to Congress?”

Mr. Sutton might have offered another man a cigar or a drink, but (as is

well known) Jethro was proof against tobacco or stimulants.

“Well,” said the Honorable Heth, catching his breath and making a dive,

“I am surprised to see you, Jethro,” which was probably true.

“Th-thought you might be,” said Jethro. “Er--glad to see me, Heth--glad

to see me?”

As has been recorded, it is peculiarly difficult to lie to people who

are not to be deceived.

“Why, certainly I am,” answered the Honorable Heth, swallowing hard,

“certainly I am, Jethro. I meant to have got to Coniston this summer,

but I was so busy--”

“Peoples' business, I understand. Er--hear you've gone in for

high-minded politics, Heth--r-read a highminded speech of yours--two

high-minded speeches. Always thought you was a high-minded man, Heth.”

“How did you like those speeches, Jethro?” asked Mr. Sutton, striving as

best he might to make some show of dignity.

“Th-thought they was high-minded,” said Jethro.

Then there was a silence, for Mr. Sutton could think of nothing more to

say. And he yearned to depart with a great yearning, but something held

him there.

“Heth,” said Jethro after a while, “you was always very friendly and

obliging. You've done a great many favors for me in your life.”

“I've always tried to be neighborly, Jethro,” said Mr. Sutton, but his

voice sounded a little husky even to himself.

“And I may have done one or two little things for you, Heth,” Jethro

continued, “but I can't remember exactly. Er--can you remember, Heth.”

Mr. Sutton was trying with becoming nonchalance to light the stump of

his cigar. He did not succeed this time. He pulled himself together with

a supreme effort.

“I think we've both been mutually helpful, Jethro,” he said, “mutually

helpful.”

“Well,” said Jethro, reflectively, “I don't know as I could have put it

as well as that--there's somethin' in being an orator.”

There was another silence, a much longer one. The Honorable Heth threw

his butt away, and lighted another cigar. Suddenly, as if by magic,

his aplomb returned, and in a flash of understanding he perceived the

situation. He saw himself once more as the successful congressman,

the trusted friend of the railroad interests, and he saw Jethro as a

discredited boss. He did not stop to reflect that Jethro did not act

like a discredited boss, as a keener man might have done. But if the

Honorable Heth had been a keener man, he would not have been at that

time a congressman. Mr. Sutton accused himself of having been stupid in

not grasping at once that the tables were turned, and that now he was

the one to dispense the gifts.

“K-kind of fortunate you stopped to speak to me, Heth. N-now I come to

think of it, I hev a little favor to ask of you.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Sutton, blowing out the smoke; “of course anything I

can do, Jethro--anything in reason.”

“W-wouldn't ask a high-minded man to do anything he hadn't ought to,”

said Jethro; “the fact is, I'd like to git Eph Prescott appointed at

the Brampton post-office. You can fix that, Heth--can't you--you can fix

that?”

Mr. Sutton stuck his thumb into his vest pocket and cleared his throat.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am not to oblige you, Jethro, but I've

arranged to give that post-office to Dave Wheelock.”

“A-arranged it, hev You--a-arranged it?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Sutton, scarcely believing his own ears. Could it

be possible that he was using this patronizingly kind tone to Jethro

Bass?

“Well, that's too bad,” said Jethro; “g-got it all fixed, hev you?”

“Practically,” answered Mr. Sutton, grandly; “indeed, I may go as far

as to say that it is as certain as if I had the appointment here in my

pocket. I'm sorry not to oblige you, Jethro; but these are matters which

a member of Congress must look after pretty closely.” He held out his

hand, but Jethro did not appear to see it,--he had his in his pockets.

“I've an important engagement,” said the Honorable Heth, consulting a

large gold watch. “Are you going to be in Washington long?”

“G-guess I've about got through, Heth--g-guess I've about got through,”

said Jethro.

“Well, if you have time and there's any other little thing, I'm in Room

29,” said Mr. Sutton, as he put his foot on the stairway.

“T-told Worthington you got that app'intment for Wheelock--t-told

Worthington?” Jethro called out after him.

Mr. Sutton turned and waved his cigar and smiled in acknowledgment of

this parting bit of satire. He felt that he could afford to smile. A

few minutes later he was ensconced on the sofa of a private sitting room

reviewing the incident, with much gusto, for the benefit of Mr. Isaac

D. Worthington and Mr. Alexander Duncan. Both of these gentlemen laughed

heartily, for the Honorable Heth Sutton knew the art of telling a story

well, at least, and was often to be seen with a group around him in the

lobbies of Congress.

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.”

“I'll thank him for you, Cousin Eph,” said Cynthia. And she did.

“D-don't thank me,” said Jethro, “I didn't have much to do with it, Eph.

Thank the President.”

Ephraim did thank the President, in one of the most remarkable letters,

from a literary point of view, ever received at the White House. For the

art of literature largely consists in belief in what one is writing, and

Ephraim's letter had this quality of sincerity, and no lack of vividness

as well. He spent most of the evening in composing it.

Cynthia, too, had received a letter that day--a letter which she had

read several times, now with a smile, and again with a pucker of the

forehead which was meant for a frown. “Dear Cynthia,” it said. “Where do

you keep yourself? I am sure you would not be so cruel if you knew

that I was aching to see you.” Aching! Cynthia repeated the word, and

remembered the glimpse she had had of him in the dining room with Miss

Janet Duncan. “Whenever I have been free” (Cynthia repeated this also,

somewhat ironically, although she conceded it the merit of frankness),

“Whenever I have been free, I have haunted the corridors for a sight

of you. Think of me as haunting the hotel desk for an answer to this,

telling me when I can see you--and where. P.S. I shall be around all

evening.” And it was signed, “Your friend and playmate, R. Worthington.”

It is a fact--not generally known--that Cynthia did answer the

letter--twice. But she sent neither answer. Even at that age she was

given to reflection, and much as she may have approved of the spirit of

the letter, she liked the tone of it less. Cynthia did not know a great

deal of the world, it is true, but the felt instinctively that something

was wrong when Bob resorted to such means of communication. And she

was positively relieved, or thought that she was, when she went down to

supper and discovered that the table in the corner was empty.

After supper Ephraim had his letter to write, and Jethro wished to sit

in the corridor. But Cynthia had learned that the corridor was not the

place for a girl, so she explained--to Jethro that he would find her in

the parlor if he wanted her, and that she was going there to read. That

parlor Cynthia thought a handsome room, with its high windows and lace

curtains, its long mirrors and marble-topped tables. She established

herself under a light, on a sofa in one corner, and sat, with the book

on her lap watching the people who came and went. She had that delicious

sensation which comes to the young when they first travel--the sensation

of being a part of the great world; and she wished that she knew these

people, and which were the great, and which the little ones. Some of

them looked at her intently, she thought too intently, and at such

times she pretended to read. She was aroused by hearing some one

saying:--“Isn't this Miss Wetherell?”

Cynthia looked up and caught her breath, for the young lady who

had spoken was none other than Miss Janet Duncan herself. Seen thus

startlingly at close range, Miss Duncan was not at all like what Cynthia

had expected--but then most people are not. Janet Duncan was, in fact,

one of those strange persons who do not realize the picture which their

names summon up. She was undoubtedly good-looking; her hair, of a

more golden red than her brother's, was really wonderful; her neck was

slender; and she had a strange, dreamy face that fascinated Cynthia, who

had never seen anything like it.

She put down her book on the sofa and got up, not without a little

tremor at this unexpected encounter.

“Yes, I'm Cynthia Wetherell,” she replied.

To add to her embarrassment, Miss Duncan seized both her hands

impulsively and gazed into her face.

“You're really very beautiful,” she said. “Do you know it?”

Cynthia's only answer to this was a blush. She wondered if all city

girls were like Miss Duncan.

“I was determined to come up and speak to you the first chance I had,”

Janet continued. “I've been making up stories about you.”

“Stories!” exclaimed Cynthia, drawing away her hands.

“Romances,” said Miss Duncan--“real romances. Sometimes I think I'm

going to be a novelist, because I'm always weaving stories about people

that I see people who interest me, I mean. And you look as if you might

be the heroine of a wonderful romance.”

Cynthia's breath was now quite taken away.

“Oh,” she said, “I--had never thought that I looked like that.”

“But you do,” said Miss Duncan; “you've got all sorts of possibilities

in your face--you look as if you might have lived for ages.”

“As old as that?” exclaimed Cynthia, really startled.

“Perhaps I don't express myself very well” said the other, hastily; “I

wish you could see what I've written about you already. I can do it so

much better with pen and ink. I've started quite a romance already.”

“What is it?” asked Cynthia, not without interest.

“Sit down on the sofa and I'll tell you,” said Miss Duncan; “I've done

it all from your face, too. I've made you a very poor girl brought up by

peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows

it. A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love

with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution

because of it, and say nothing. I believe you could do that,” added

Janet, looking critically at Cynthia's face.

“I suppose I could if I had to,” said Cynthia, “but I shouldn't like

it.”

“Oh, it would do you good,” said Janet; “it would ennoble your

character. Not that it needs it,” she added hastily. “And I could write

another story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go

away, and who made us all laugh so much.”

Cynthia's eye kindled.

“Mr. Bass isn't a quaint old man,” she said; “he's the greatest man in

the state.”

Miss Duncan's patronage had been of an unconscious kind. She knew that

she had offended, but did not quite realize how.

“I'm so sorry,” she cried, “I didn't mean to hurt you. You live with

him, don't you--Coniston?”

“Yes,” replied Cynthia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“I've heard about Coniston. It must be quite a romance in itself to

live all the year round in such a beautiful place and to make your own

clothes. Yours become you very well,” said Miss Duncan, “although I

don't know why. They're not at all in style, and yet they give you

quite an air of distinction. I wish I could live in Coniston for a year,

anyway, and write a book about you. My brother and Bob Worthington went

out there one night and serenaded you, didn't they?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, that peculiar flash coming into her eyes again,

“and I think it was very foolish of them.”

“Do you?” exclaimed Miss Duncan, in surprise; “I wish somebody would

serenade me. I think it was the most romantic thing Bob ever did.

He's wild about you, and so is Somers they have both told me so in

confidence.”

Cynthia's face was naturally burning now.

“If it were true,” she said, “they wouldn't have told you about it.”

“I suppose that's so,” said Miss Duncan, thoughtfully, “only you're

very clever to have seen it. Now that I know you, I think you a more

remarkable person than ever. You don't seem at all like a country girl,

and you don't talk like one.”

Cynthia laughed outright. She could not help liking Janet Duncan, mere

flesh and blood not being proof against such compliments.

“I suppose it's because my father was an educated man,” she said; “he

taught me to read and speak when I was young.”

“Why, you are just like a person out of a novel! Who was your father?”

“He kept the store at Coniston,” answered Cynthia, smiling a little

sadly. She would have liked to have added that William Wetherell would

have been a great man if he had had health, but she found it difficult

to give out confidences, especially when they were in the nature of

surmises.

“Well,” said Janet, stoutly, “I think that is more like a story than

ever. Do you know,” she continued, “I saw you once at the state capital

outside of our grounds the day Bob ran after you. That was when I was in

love with him. We had just come back from Europe then, and I thought he

was the most wonderful person I had ever seen.”

If Cynthia had felt any emotion from this disclosure, she did not betray

it. Janet, moreover, was not looking for it.

“What made you change your mind?” asked Cynthia, biting her lip.

“Oh, Bob hasn't the temperament,” said Janet, making use of a word that

she had just discovered; “he's too practical--he never does or says the

things you want him to. He's just been out West with us on a trip, and

he was always looking at locomotives and brakes and grades and bridges

and all such tiresome things. I should like to marry a poet,” said Miss

Duncan, dreamily; “I know they want me to marry Bob, and Mr. Worthington

wants it. I'm sure, of that. But he wouldn't at all suit me.”

If Cynthia had been able to exercise an equal freedom of speech, she

might have been impelled to inquire what young Mr. Worthington's views

were in the matter. As it was, she could think of nothing appropriate to

say, and just then four people entered the room and came towards them.

Two of these were Janet's mother and father, and the other two were Mr.

Worthington, the elder, and the Honorable Heth Sutton. Mrs. Duncan,

whom Janet did not at all resemble was a person who naturally commanded

attention. She had strong features, and a very decided, though not

disagreeable, manner.

“I couldn't imagine what had become of you, Janet,” she said, coming

forward and throwing off her lace shawl. “Whom have you found--a school

friend?”

“No, Mamma,” said Janet, “this is Cynthia Wetherell.” “Oh,” said Mrs.

Duncan, looking very hard at Cynthia in a near-sighted way, and, not

knowing in the least who she was; “you haven't seen Senator and Mrs.

Meade, have you, Janet? They were to be here at eight o'clock.”

“No,” said Janet, turning again to Cynthia and scarcely hearing the

question.

“Janet hasn't seen them, Dudley,” said Mrs. Duncan, going up to Mr.

Worthington, who was pulling his chop whiskers by the door. “Janet has

discovered such a beautiful creature,” she went on, in a voice which she

did not take the trouble to lower. “Do look at her, Alexander. And you,

Mr. Sutton--who are such a bureau of useful information, do tell me

who she is. Perhaps she comes from your part of the country--her name's

Wetherell.”

“Wetherell? Why, of course I know her,” said Mr. Sutton, who was greatly

pleased because Mrs. Duncan had likened him to an almanac: greatly

pleased this evening in every respect, and even the diamond in his bosom

seemed to glow with a brighter fire. He could afford to be generous

to-night, and he turned to Mr. Worthington and laughed knowingly. “She's

the ward of our friend Jethro,” he explained.

“What is she?” demanded Mrs. Duncan, who knew and cared nothing about

politics, “a country girl, I suppose.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Sutton, “a country girl from a little village not

far from Clovelly. A good girl, I believe, in spite of the atmosphere in

which she has been raised.”

“It's really wonderful, Mr. Sutton, how you seem to know every one in

your district, including the women and children,” said the lady; “but I

suppose you wouldn't be where you are if you didn't.”

The Honorable Heth cleared his throat.

“Wetherell,” Mr. Duncan was saying, staring at Cynthia through his

spectacles, “where have I heard that name?”

He must suddenly have remembered, and recalled also that he and his ally

Worthington had been on opposite sides in the Woodchuck Session, for he

sat down abruptly beside the door, and remained there for a while. For

Mr. Duncan had never believed Mr. Merrill's explanation concerning poor

William Wetherell' s conduct.

“Pretty, ain't she?” said Mr. Sutton to Mr. Worthington. “Guess she's

more dangerous than Jethro, now that we've clipped his wings a little.”

The congressman had heard of Bob's infatuation.

Isaac D. Worthington, however, was in a good humor this evening and was

moved by a certain curiosity to inspect the girl. Though what he had

seen and heard of his son's conduct with her had annoyed him, he did not

regard it seriously.

“Aren't you going to speak to your constituent, Mr. Sutton?” said

Mrs. Duncan, who was bored because her friends had not arrived; “a

congressman ought to keep on the right side of the pretty girls, you

know.”

It hadn't occurred to the Honorable Heth to speak to his constituent.

The ways of Mrs. Duncan sometimes puzzled him, and he could not see why

that lady and her daughter seemed to take more than a passing interest

in the girl. But if they could afford to notice her, certainly he

could; so he went forward graciously and held out his hand to Cynthia;

interrupting Miss Duncan in the middle of a discourse upon her diary.

“How do you do, Cynthia?” said Mr. Sutton. Had he been in Coniston, he