“Cynthy?”

“Yes.”

“Er—­that Painter-man hain’t such a bad fellow—­w-why didn’t you ask him in to supper?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” said Cynthia, but she did not wait for them.  “It was because I wanted to be alone with you.  Milly’s gone out, hasn’t she?”

“G-gone a-courtin’,” said Jethro.

She smiled, and went into the house to see whether Milly had done her duty before she left.  It was characteristic of Cynthia not to have mentioned the subject which was agitating her mind until they were seated on opposite sides of the basswood table.

“Uncle Jethro,” she said, “I thought you told Mr. Sutton to give Cousin Eph the Brampton post-office?  Do you trust Mr. Sutton?” she demanded abruptly.

“Er—­why?” said Jethro.  “Why?”

“Because I don’t,” she answered with conviction; “I think he’s a big fraud.  He must have deceived you, Uncle Jethro.  I can’t see why you ever sent him to Congress.”

Although Jethro was in no mood for mirth, he laughed in spite of himself, for he was an American.  His lifelong habit would have made him defend Heth to any one but Cynthia.

“’D you see Heth, Cynthy?” he asked.  “Yes,” replied the girl, disgustedly, “I should say I did, but not to speak to him.  He was sitting on Mr. Worthington’s porch, and I heard him tell Mr. Worthington he would give the Brampton post-office to Dave Wheelock.  I don’t want you to think that I was eavesdropping,” she added quickly; “I couldn’t help hearing it.”

Jethro did not answer.

“You’ll make him give the post-office to Cousin Eph, won’t you, Uncle Jethro?”

“Yes;” said Jethro, very simply, “I will.”  He meditated awhile, and then said suddenly, “W-won’t speak about it—­will you, Cynthy?”

“You know I won’t,” she answered.

Let it not be thought by any chance that Coniston was given over to revelry and late hours, even on the Fourth of July.  By ten o’clock the lights were out in the tannery house, but Cynthia was not asleep.  She sat at her window watching the shy moon peeping over Coniston ridge, and she was thinking, to be exact, of how much could happen in one short day and how little in a long month.  She was aroused by the sound of wheels and the soft beat of a horse’s hoofs on the dirt road:  then came stifled laughter, and suddenly she sprang up alert and tingling.  Her own name came floating to her through the darkness.

The next thing that happened will be long remembered in Coniston.  A tentative chord or two from a guitar, and then the startled village was listening with all its might to the voices of two young men singing “When I first went up to Harvard”—­probably meant to disclose the identity of the serenaders, as if that were necessary!  Coniston, never having listened to grand opera, was entertained and thrilled, and thought the rendering of the song better on the whole than the church choir could have done it, or even the quartette that sung at the Brampton celebrations behind the flowers.  Cynthia had her own views on the subject.