At this instant a diversion occurred—­a trifling diversion, so it seemed at the time.  Around the corner of the store, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair flying, ran little Cynthia, her hands, browned already by the Coniston sun, filled with wild strawberries.

“See what I’ve found, Daddy!” she cried, “see what I’ve found!”

Jethro Bass started, and flung back his head like a man who has heard a voice from another world, and then he looked at the child with a kind of stupefaction.  The cry, died on Cynthia’s lips, and she stopped, gazing up at him with wonder in her eyes.

“F-found strawberries?” said Jethro, at last.

“Yes,” she answered.  She was very grave and serious now, as was her manner in dealing with people.

“S-show ’em to me,” said Jethro.

Cynthia went to him, without embarrassment, and put her hand on his knee.  Not once had he taken his eyes from her face.  He put out his own hand with an awkward, shy movement, picked a strawberry from her fingers, and thrust it in his mouth.

“Mm,” said Jethro, gravely.  “Er—­what’s your name, little gal—­what’s your name?”

“Cynthia.”

There was a long pause.

“Er—­er—­Cynthia?” he said at length, “Cynthia?”

“Cynthia.”

“Er-er, Cynthia—­not Cynthy?”

“Cynthia,” she said again.

He bent over her and lowered his voice.

“M-may I call you Cynthy—­Cynthy?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” answered Cynthia, looking up to her father and then glancing shyly at Jethro.

His eyes were on the mountain, and he seemed to have forgotten her until she reached out to him, timidly, another strawberry.  He seized her little hand instead and held it between his own—­much to the astonishment of his friends.

“Whose little gal be you?” he asked.

“Dad’s.”

“She’s Will Wetherell’s daughter,” said Lem Hallowell.  “He’s took on the store.  Will,” he added, turning to Wetherell, “let me make you acquainted with Jethro Bass.”

Jethro rose slowly, and towered above Wetherell on the stoop.  There was an inscrutable look in his black eyes, as of one who sees without being seen.  Did he know who William Wetherell was?  If so, he gave no sign, and took Wetherell’s hand limply.

“Will’s kinder hipped on book-l’arnin’,” Lemuel continued kindly.  “Come here to keep store for his health.  Guess you may have heerd, Jethro, that Will married Cynthy Ware.  You call Cynthy to mind, don’t ye?”

Jethro Bass dropped Wetherell’s hand, but answered nothing.

CHAPTER VIII

A week passed, and Jethro did not appear in the village, report having it that he was cutting his farms on Thousand Acre Hill.  When Jethro was farming,—­so it was said,—­he would not stop to talk politics even with the President of the United States were that dignitary to lean over his pasture fence and beckon to him.  On a sultry Friday morning, when William Wetherell was seated at Jonah Winch’s desk in the cool recesses of the store slowly and painfully going over certain troublesome accounts which seemed hopeless, he was thrown into a panic by the sight of one staring at him from the far side of a counter.  History sometimes reverses itself.