“H-hear things, don’t you—­hear things in the store?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t hear ’em.  Keep out of politics, Will, s-stick to store-keepin’ and—­and literature.”

Jethro got to his feet and turned his back on the storekeeper and picked up the parcel he had brought.

“C-Cynthy well?” he inquired.

“I—­I’ll call her,” said Wetherell, huskily.  “She—­she was down by the brook when you came.”

But Jethro Bass did not wait.  He took his parcel and strode down to Coniston Water, and there he found Cynthia seated on a rock with her toes in a pool.

“How be you, Cynthy?” said he, looking down at her.

“I’m well, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia.

“R-remembered what I told you to call me, hev you,” said Jethro, plainly pleased.  “Th-that’s right.  Cynthy?”

Cynthia looked up at him inquiringly.

“S-said you liked books—­didn’t you?  S-said you liked books?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied simply, “very much.”

He undid the wrapping of the parcel, and there lay disclosed a book with a very gorgeous cover.  He thrust it into the child’s lap.

“It’s ’Robinson Crusoe’!” she exclaimed, and gave a little shiver of delight that made ripples in the pool.  Then she opened it—­not without awe, for William Wetherell’s hooks were not clothed in this magnificent manner.  “It’s full of pictures,” cried Cynthia.  “See, there he is making a ship!”

“Y-you read it, Cynthy?” asked Jethro, a little anxiously.

No, Cynthia hadn’t.

“L-like it, Cynthy—­l-like it?” said he, not quite so anxiously.

Cynthia looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

“F-fetched it up from the capital for you, Cynthy—­for you.”

“For me!”

A strange thrill ran through Jethro Bass as he gazed upon the wonder and delight in the face of the child.

“F-fetched it for you, Cynthy.”

For a moment Cynthia sat very still, and then she slowly closed the book and stared at the cover again, Jethro looking down at her the while.  To tell the truth, she found it difficult to express the emotions which the event had summoned up.

“Thank you—­Uncle Jethro,” she said.

Jethro, however, understood.  He had, indeed, never failed to understand her from the beginning.  He parted his coat tails and sat down on the rock beside her, and very gently opened the book again, to the first chapter.

“G-goin’ to read it, Cynthy?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and trembled again.

“Er—­read it to me?”

So Cynthia read “Robinson Crusoe” to him while the summer afternoon wore away, and the shadows across the pool grew longer and longer.

CHAPTER XI