ices 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 th