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 thin