“Hay on the Fourth of July!” exclaimed Cynthia, “why, that’s—­sacrilege!  You’d much better come and hear Mr. Sutton’s speech—­it will do you good.”

Cynthia could see that Jethro was intensely amused, for his eyes had a way of snapping on such occasions when he was alone with her.  She was puzzled and slightly offended, because, to tell the truth, Jethro had spoiled her.

“Very well, then,” she said, “I’ll go with the Painter-man.”

Jethro came and stood over her, his expression the least bit wistful.

“Er—­Cynthy,” he said presently, “hain’t fond of that Painter-man, be you?”

“Why, yes,” said Cynthia, “aren’t you?”

“He’s fond of you,” said Jethro, “sh-shouldn’t be surprised if he was in love with you.”

Cynthia looked up at him, the corners of her mouth twitching, and then she laughed.  The Rev. Mr. Satterlee, writing his Sunday sermon in his study, heard her and laid down his pen to listen.

“Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia, “sometimes I forget that you’re a great, wise man, and I think that you are just a silly old goose.”

Jethro wiped his face with his blue cotton handkerchief.

“Then you hain’t a-goin’ to marry the Painter-man?” he said.

“I’m not going to marry anybody,” cried Cynthia, contritely; “I’m going to live with you and take care of you all my life.”

On the morning of the Fourth, Cynthia drove to Brampton with the Painter-man, and when he perceived that she was dreaming, he ceased to worry her with his talk.  He liked her dreaming, and stole many glances at her face of which she knew nothing at all.  Through the cool and fragrant woods, past the mill-pond stained blue and white by the sky, and scented clover fields and wayside flowers nodding in the morning air—­Cynthia saw these things in the memory of another journey to Brampton.  On that Fourth her father had been with her, and Jethro and Ephraim and Moses and Amanda Hatch and the children.  And how well she recalled, too, standing amidst the curious crowd before the great house which Mr. Worthington had just built.

There are weeks and months, perhaps, when we do not think of people, when our lives are full and vigorous, and then perchance a memory will bring them vividly before us—­so vividly that we yearn for them.  There rose before Cynthia now the vision of a boy as he stood on the Gothic porch of the house, and how he had come down to the wondering country people with his smile and his merry greeting, and how he had cajoled her into lingering in front of the meeting-house.  Had he forgotten her?  With just a suspicion of a twinge, Cynthia remembered that Janet Duncan she had seen at the capital, whom she had been told was the heiress of the state.  When he had graduated from Harvard, Bob would, of course, marry her.  That was in the nature of things.