rch
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 th