It was eight o’clock when they got into the press of Brampton Street, and there was a hush as they made their way slowly through the throng, and many a stare at the curious figure in the old-fashioned blue swallowtail and brass buttons and tall hat, driving the farm wagon.  Husbands pointed him out to their wives, young men to sisters and sweethearts, some openly, some discreetly.  “There goes Jethro Bass,” and some were bold enough to say, “Howdy, Jethro?” Jake Wheeler was to be observed in the crowd ahead of them, hurried for once out of his Jethro step, actually running toward the tavern, lest such a one arrive unheralded.  Commotion is perceived on the tavern porch,—­Mr. Sherman, the proprietor, bustling out, Jake Wheeler beside him; a chorus of “How be you, Jethros?” from the more courageous there,—­but the farm team jogs on, leaving a discomfited gathering, into the side street, up an alley, and into the cool, ammonia-reeking sheds of lank Jim Sanborn’s livery stable.  No obsequiousness from lank Jim, who has the traces slipped and the reins festooned from the bits almost before Jethro has lifted Cynthia to the floor.  Jethro, walking between Cynthia and her father, led the way, Ephraim, Lem, and Sue Hallowell following, the children, in unwonted shoes and stockings, bringing up the rear.  The people parted, and presently they found themselves opposite the new-scrolled band stand among the trees, where the Harwich band in glittering gold and red had just been installed.  The leader; catching sight of Jethro’s party, and of Ephraim’s corded army hat, made a bow, waved his baton, and they struck up “Marching through Georgia.”  It was, of course, not dignified to cheer, but I think that the blood of every man and woman and child ran faster with the music, and so many of them looked at Cousin Ephraim that he slipped away behind the line of wagons.  So the day began.

“Jest to think of bein’ that rich, Will!” exclaimed Amanda Hatch to the storekeeper, as they stood in the little group which had gathered in front of the first citizen’s new mansion.  “I own it scares me.  Think how much that house must hev cost, and even them dogs,” said Amanda, staring at the mastiffs with awe.  “They tell me he has a grand piano from New York, and guests from Boston railroad presidents.  I call Isaac Worthington to mind when he wahn’t but a slip of a boy with a cough, runnin’ after Cynthy Ware.”  She glanced down at Cynthia with something of compassion.  “Just to think, child, he might have be’n your father!”

“I’m glad he isn’t,” said Cynthia, hotly.

“Of course, of course,” replied the good-natured and well-intentioned Amanda, “I’d sooner have your father than Isaac Worthington.  But I was only thinkin’ how nice it would be to be rich.”

Just then one of the glass-panelled doors of this house opened, and a good-looking lad of seventeen came out.

“That’s Bob Worthington,” said Amanda, determined that they should miss nothing.  “My! it wahn’t but the other day when he put on long pants.  It won’t be a great while before he’ll go into the mills and git all that money.  Guess he’ll marry some city person.  He’d ought to take you, Cynthy.”