“Jethro,” cried the little railroad president, “upon my word.  Well, well.  And Miss Jethro,” he took off his hat to Cynthia, “well, well.  Didn’t know you had a girl, Jethro.”

“W-wish she was mine, Steve,” said Jethro.  “She’s a good deal to me as it is.  Hain’t you, Cynthy?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Merrill, staring at her, “you’ll have to look out for her some day—­keep the boys away from her—­eh?  Upon my word!  Well, Jethro,” said he, with a twinkle in his eye, “are you goin’ to reform?  I’ll bet you’ve got an annual over my road in your pocket right now.”

“Enjoy the speech-makin’, Steve?” inquired Mr. Bass, solemnly.

Mr. Merrill winked at Jethro, and laughed heartily.

“Keep the boys away from her, Jethro,” he repeated, laying his hand on the shoulder of the lad who stood beside him.  “It’s a good thing Bob’s going off to Harvard this fall.  Seems to me I heard about some cutting up at Andover—­eh, Bob?”

Bob grinned, showing a line of very white teeth.

Mr. Merrill took Jethro by the arm and led him off a little distance, having a message of some importance to give him, the purport of which will appear later.  And Cynthia and Bob were left face to face.  Of course Bob could have gone on, if he had wished it.

“Don’t remember me, do you?” he said.

“I do now,” said Cynthia, looking at him rather timidly through her lashes.  Her face was hot, and she had been, very uncomfortable during Mr. Merrill’s remarks.  Furthermore, Bob had not taken his eyes off her.

“I remembered you right away,” he said reproachfully; “I saw you in front of the house this morning, and you ran away.”

“I didn’t runaway,” replied Cynthia, indignantly.

“It looked like it, to me,” said Bob..  “I suppose you were afraid I was going to give you anther whistle.”

Cynthia bit her lip, and then she laughed.  Then she looked around to see where Jethro was, and discovered that they were alone in front of the meeting-house.  Ephraim and her father had passed on while Mr. Merrill was talking.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bob.

“I’m afraid they’ve gone,” said Cynthia.  “I ought to be going after them.  They’ll miss me.”

“Oh, no, they won’t,” said Bob, easily, “let’s sit down under the tree.  They’ll come back.”

Whereupon he sat down under the maple.  But Cynthia remained standing, ready to fly.  She had an idea that it was wrong to stay—­which made it all the more delightful.

“Sit down—­Cynthia,” said he.

She glanced down at him, startled.  He was sitting, with his legs crossed, looking up at her intently.

“I like that name,” he observed.  “I like it better than any girl’s name I know.  Do be good-natured and sit down.”  And he patted the ground close beside him.

Shy laughed again.  The laugh had in it an exquisite note of shyness, which he liked.