The next morning Cynthia, who was walking about the town alone, found herself gazing over a picket fence at a great square house with a very wide cornice that stood by itself in the centre of a shade-flecked lawn.  There were masses of shrubbery here and there, and a greenhouse, and a latticed summer-house:  and Cynthia was wondering what it would be like to live in a great place like that, when a barouche with two shining horses in silver harness drove past her and stopped before the gate.  Four or five girls and boys came laughing out on the porch, and one of them, who held a fishing-rod in his hand, Cynthia recognized.  Startled and ashamed, she began to walk on as fast as she could in the opposite direction, when she heard the sound of footsteps on the lawn behind her, and her own name called in a familiar voice.  At that she hurried the faster; but she could not run, and the picket fence was half a block long, and Bob Worthington had an advantage over her.  Of course it was Bob, and he did not scruple to run, and in a few seconds he was leaning over the fence in front of her.  Now Cynthia was as red as a peony by this time, and she almost hated him.

“Well, of all people, Cynthia Wetherell!” he cried; “didn’t you hear me calling after you?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia.

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“I didn’t want to,” said Cynthia, glancing at the distant group on the porch, who were watching them.  Suddenly she turned to him defiantly.  “I didn’t know you were in that house, or in the capital,” she said.

“And I didn’t know you were,” said Bob, upon whose masculine intelligence the meaning of her words was entirely lost.  “If I had known it, you can bet I would have looked you up.  Where are you staying?”

“At the Pelican House.”

“What!” said Bob, “with all the politicians?  How did you happen to go there?”

“Mr. Bass asked my father and me to come down for a few days,” answered Cynthia, her color heightening again.  Life is full of contrasts, and Cynthia was becoming aware of some of them.

“Uncle Jethro?” said Bob.

“Yes, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia, smiling in spite of herself.  He always made her smile.

“Uncle Jethro owns the Pelican House,” said Bob.

“Does he?  I knew he was a great man, but I didn’t know how great he was until I came down here.”

Cynthia said this so innocently that Bob repented his flippancy on the spot.  He had heard occasional remarks of his elders about Jethro.

“I didn’t mean quite that,” he said, growing red in his turn.  “Uncle Jethro—­Mr. Bass—­is a great man of course.  That’s what I meant.”

“And he’s a very good man,” said Cynthia, who understood now that he had spoken a little lightly of Jethro, and resented it.

“I’m sure of it,” said Bob, eagerly.  Then Cynthia began to walk on, slowly, and he followed her on the other side of the fence.  “Hold on,” he cried, “I haven’t said half the things I want to say—­yet.”