Young Mr. Worthington was from Boston—­no less; slim, pale, medium height, but with an alert look, and a high-bridged nose.  But his clothes!  Sam Price’s vocabulary was insufficient here, they were cut in such a way, and Mr. Worthington was downright distinguished-looking under his gray beaver.  Why had he come to Brampton? demanded Deacon Ira Perkins.  Sam had saved this for the last.  Young Mr. Worthington was threatened with consumption, and had been sent to live with his distant relative, Silas Wheelock.

The presence of a gentleman of leisure—­although threatened with consumption—­became an all-absorbing topic in two villages and three hamlets, and more than one swain, hitherto successful, felt the wind blow colder.  But in a fortnight it was known that a petticoat did not make Isaac Worthington even turn his head.  Curiosity centred on Silas Wheelock’s barn, where Mr. Worthington had fitted up a shop, and, presently various strange models of contrivances began to take shape there.  What these were, Silas himself knew not; and the gentleman of leisure was, alas! close-mouthed.  When he was not sawing and hammering and planing, he took long walks up and down Coniston Water, and was surprised deep in thought at several places.

Nathan Bass’s story-and-a-half house, devoid of paint, faced the road, and behind it was the shed, or barn, that served as the tannery, and between the tannery and Coniston Water were the vats.  The rain flew in silvery spray, and the drops shone like jewels on the coat of a young man who stood looking in at the tannery door.  Young Jake Wheeler, son of the village spendthrift, was driving a lean white horse round in a ring:  to the horse was attached a beam, and on the beam a huge round stone rolled on a circular oak platform.  Jethro Bass, who was engaged in pushing hemlock bark under the stone to be crushed, straightened.  Of the three, the horse had seen the visitor first, and stopped in his tracks.

“Jethro!” whispered Jake, tingling with an excitement that was but natural.  Jethro had begun to sweep the finer pieces of bark toward the centre.  “It’s the city man, walked up here from Brampton.”

It was indeed Mr. Worthington, slightly more sunburned and less citified-looking than on his arrival, and he wore a woollen cap of Brampton make.  Even then, despite his wavy hair and delicate appearance, Isaac Worthington had the hawk-like look which became famous in later years, and at length he approached Jethro and fixed his eye upon him.

“Kind of slow work, isn’t it?” remarked Mr. Worthington.

The white horse was the only one to break the silence that followed, by sneezing with all his might.

“How is the tannery business in these parts?” essayed Mr. Worthington again.

“Thinkin’ of it?” said Jethro.  “T-thinkin’ of it, be you?”

“No,” answered Mr. Worthington, hastily.  “If I were,” he added, “I’d put in new machinery.  That horse and stone is primitive.”