“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 thing,” said Jock.  He had not intended a dissertation on Jethro Bass, but he felt bound to defend his statements.

“Rich!”

“Wal, he hain’t poor.  He’s got as many as thirty mortgages round among the farmers—­some on land, and some on cattle.”

“How did he make the money?” demanded Cynthia, in surprise.

“Hides an’ wool an’ bark—­turned ’em over an’ swep’ in.  Gits a load, and Lyman Hull drives him down to Boston with that six-hoss team.  Lyman gits drunk, Jethro keeps sober and saves.”

Jock began to fashion some wooden pegs with his adze, for nails were scarce in those days.  Still Cynthia lingered, picking flowers from the bunch.