In a few minutes the game was in full swing, Brampton against Harwich, the old rivalry in another form.  Every advantage on either side awoke thundering cheers from the partisans; beribboned young women sprang to their feet and waved the Harwich blue at a home run, and were on the verge of tears when the Brampton pitcher struck out their best batsman.  But beyond the facts that the tide was turning in Brampton’s favor; that young Mr. Worthington stopped a ball flying at a phenomenal speed and batted another at a still more phenomenal speed which was not stopped; that his name and Duncan’s were mingled generously in the cheering, the painter remembered little of the game.  The exhibition of human passions which the sight of it drew from an undemonstrative race:  the shouting, the comments wrung from hardy spirits off their guard, the joy and the sorrow,—­such things interested him more.  High above the turmoil Coniston, as through the ages, looked down upon the scene impassive.

He was aroused from these reflections by an incident.  Some one had leaped over the railing which separated the stand from the field and stood before Cynthia,—­a tanned and smiling young man in gray and crimson.  His honest eyes were alight with an admiration that was unmistakable to the painter—­perhaps to Cynthia also, for a glow that might have been of annoyance or anger, and yet was like the color of the mountain sunrise, answered in her cheek.  Mr. Worthington reached out a large brown hand and seized the girl’s as it lay on her lap.

“Hello, Cynthia,” he cried, “I’ve been looking for you all day.  I thought you might be here.  Where were you?”

“Where did you look?” answered Cynthia, composedly, withdrawing her hand.

“Everywhere,” said Bob, “up and down the street, all through the hotel.  I asked Lem Hallowell, and he didn’t know where you were.  I only got here last night myself.”

“I was in the meeting-house,” said Cynthia.

“The meeting-house!” he echoed.  “You don’t mean to tell me that you listened to that silly speech of Sutton’s?”

This remark, delivered in all earnestness, was the signal for uproarious laughter from Mr. Dodd and others sitting near by, attending earnestly to the conversation.

Cynthia bit her lip.

“Yes, I did,” she said; “but I’m sorry now.”

“I should think you would be,” said Bob; “Sutton’s a silly, pompous old fool.  I had to sit through dinner with him.  I believe I could represent the district better myself.”

“By gosh!” exploded Mr. Dodd, “I believe you could!”

But Bob paid no attention to him.  He was looking at Cynthia.

“Cynthia, you’ve grown up since I saw you,” he said.  “How’s Uncle Jethro.

“He’s well—­thanks,” said Cynthia, and now she was striving to put down a smile.

“Still running the state?” said Bob.  “You tell him I think he ought to muzzle Sutton.  What did he send him down to Washington for?”