“Why do you want me to sit down?” she asked suddenly.

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“Can’t you talk to me standing up?”

“I suppose I could,” said Bob, “but—­I shouldn’t be able to say such nice things to you.”

The corners of her mouth trembled a little.

“And whose loss would that be?” she asked.

Bob Worthington was surprised at this retort, and correspondingly delighted.  He had not expected it in a country storekeeper’s daughter, and he stared at Cynthia so frankly that she blushed again, and turned away.  He was a young man who, it may be surmised, had had some experience with the other sex at Andover and elsewhere.  He had not spent all of his life in Brampton.

“I’ve often thought of you since that day when you wouldn’t take the whistle,” he declared.  “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m laughing at you,” said Cynthia, leaning against the tree, with her hands behind her.

“You’ve been laughing at me ever since you’ve stood there,” he said, aggrieved that his declarations should not betaken more seriously.

“What have you thought about me?” she demanded.  She was really beginning to enjoy this episode.

“Well—­” he began, and hesitated—­and broke down and laughed—­Cynthia laughed with him.

“I can tell you what I didn’t think,” said Bob.

“What?” asked Cynthia, falling into the trap.

“I didn’t think you’d be so—­so good-looking,” said he, quite boldly.

“And I didn’t think you’d be so rude,” responded Cynthia.  But though she blushed again, she was not exactly displeased.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” he asked.  “Let’s go for a walk.”

“I’m going back to Coniston.”

“Let’s go for a walk now,” said he, springing to his feet.  “Come on.”

Cynthia looked at him and shook her head smilingly.

“Here’s Uncle Jethro—­”

“Uncle Jethro!” exclaimed Bob, “is he your uncle?”

“Oh, no, not really.  But he’s just the same.  He’s very good to me.”

“I wonder whether he’d mind if I called him Uncle Jethro, too,” said Bob, and Cynthia laughed at the notion.  This young man was certainly very comical, and very frank.  “Good-by,” he said; “I’ll come to see you some day in Coniston.”

CHAPTER XII

That evening, after Cynthia had gone to bed, William Wetherell sat down at Jonah Winch’s desk in the rear of the store to gaze at a blank sheet of paper until the Muses chose to send him subject matter for his weekly letter to the Guardian.  The window was open, and the cool airs from the mountain spruces mingled with the odors of corn meal and kerosene and calico print.  Jethro Bass, who had supped with the storekeeper, sat in the wooden armchair silent, with his head bent.  Sometimes he would sit there by the hour while Wetherell wrote or read, and take his departure when he was so moved without saying good night.  Presently Jethro lifted his chin, and dropped it again; there was a sound of wheels without, and, after an interval, a knock at the door.