t 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