r, 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--muc