“No,” said he, determinedly.

“Very well,” answered Cynthia.  She laid down the whistle beside him on the rail, and went off a little distance and seated herself on a bench.  The boy laughed.

“I like that girl,” he remarked; “the rest of ’em take everything I give ’em, and ask for more.  She’s prettier’n any of ’em, too.”

“What is your name?” Wetherell asked him, curiously, forgetting his own troubles.

“Bob Worthington.”

“Are you the son of Dudley Worthington”

“Everybody asks me that,” he said; “I’m tired of it.  When I grow up, they’ll have to stop it.”

“But you should be proud of your father.”

“I am proud of him, everybody’s proud of him, Brampton’s proud of him—­he’s proud of himself.  That’s enough, ain’t it?” He eyed Wetherell somewhat defiantly, then his glance wandered to Cynthia, and he walked over to her.  He threw himself down on the grass in front of her, and lay looking up at her solemnly.  For a while she continued to stare inflexibly at the line of market wagons, and then she burst into a laugh.

“Thought you wouldn’t hold out forever,” he remarked.

“It’s because you’re so foolish,” said Cynthia, “that’s why I laughed.”  Then she grew sober again and held out her hand to him.  “Good-by.”

“Where are you going?”

“I must go back to my father.  I—­I think he doesn’t feel very well.”

“Next time I’ll make a whistle for you,” he called after her.

“And give it to somebody else,” said Cynthia.

She had hold of her father’s hand by that, but he caught up with her, very red in the face.

“You know that isn’t true,” he cried angrily, and taking his way across Brampton Street, turned, and stood staring after them until they were out of sight.

“Do you like him, Daddy?” asked Cynthia.

William Wetherell did not answer.  He had other things to think about.

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Does your trouble feel any better?”

“Some, Cynthia.  But you mustn’t think about it.”

“Daddy, why don’t you ask Uncle Jethro to help you?”

At the name Wetherell started as if he had had a shock.

“What put him into your head, Cynthia?” he asked sharply.  “Why do you call him ’Uncle Jethro’?”

“Because he asked me to.  Because he likes me, and I like him.”

The whole thing was a riddle he could not solve—­one that was best left alone.  They had agreed to walk back the ten miles to Coniston, to save the money that dinner at the hotel would cost.  And so they started, Cynthia flitting hither and thither along the roadside, picking the stately purple iris flowers in the marshy places, while Wetherell pondered.

CONISTON

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IX