It was, indeed, Miss Cassandra Hopkins, daughter of that Honorable Alva who—­according to Mr. Bixby was all ready with a certain sum of money to be the next governor.  Miss Cassandra was arrayed fluffily in cool, pink lawn, and she carried a fringed parasol, and she was gazing upward with telling effect into the face of the gentleman by her side.  This would have all been very romantic if the gentleman had been young and handsome, but he was certainly not a man to sweep a young girl off her feet.  He was tall, angular, though broad-shouldered, with a long, scrawny neck that rose out of a very low collar, and a large head, scantily covered with hair—­a head that gave a physical as well as a mental effect of hardness.  His smooth-shaven face seemed to bear witness that its owner was one who had pushed frugality to the borders of a vice.  It was not a pleasant face, but now it wore an almost benign expression under the influence of Miss Cassandra’s eyes.  So intent, apparently, were both of them upon each other that they did not notice the group on the bench at the other side of the grove.  William Wetherell ventured to ask Jethro who the man was.

“N-name’s Lovejoy,” said Jethro.

“Lovejoy!” ejaculated the storekeeper, thinking of what Mr. Merrill had told him of the opponents of the Truro Franchise Bill.  “President of the ‘Northwestern’ Railroad?”

Jethro gave his friend a shrewd look.

“G-gettin’ posted—­hain’t you, Will?” he said.

“Is she going to marry that old man?” asked Cynthia.

Jethro smiled a little.  “G-guess not,” said he, “g-guess not, if the old man can help it.  Nobody’s married him yet, and hain’t likely to.”

Jethro was unusually silent on the way back to the hotel, but he did not seem to be worried or displeased.  He only broke his silence once, in fact, when Cynthia called his attention to a large poster of some bloodhounds on a fence, announcing the fact in red letters that “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” would be given by a certain travelling company at the Opera House the next evening.

“L-like to go, Cynthy?”

“Oh, Uncle Jethro, do you think we can go?”

“Never b’en to a show—­hev you—­never b’en to a show?”

“Never in my life,” said Cynthia.

“We’ll all go,” said Jethro, and he repeated it once or twice as they came to Main Street, seemingly greatly tickled at the prospect.  And there was the Truro Franchise Bill hanging over him, with only a week left of the session, and Lovejoy’s and Duncan’s men sitting so tight in their seats!  William Wetherell could not understand it.

CHAPTER XIV

Half an hour later, when Mr. Wetherell knocked timidly at Number 7,—­drawn thither by an irresistible curiosity,—­the door was opened by a portly person who wore a shining silk hat and ample gold watch chain.  The gentleman had, in fact, just arrived; but he seemed perfectly at home as he laid down his hat on the marble-topped bureau, mopped his face, took a glass of iced water at a gulp, chose a cigar, and sank down gradually on the bed.  Mr. Wetherell recognized him instantly as the father of the celebrated Cassandra.