Two personages worthy of mention here visited the tannery house during the years that Cynthia lived with Jethro.  The Honorable Heth Sutton drove over from Clovelly attended by his prime minister, Mr. Bijah Bixby.  The Honorable Heth did not attempt to conceal the smile with which he went away, and he stopped at the store long enough to enable Rias to produce certain refreshments from depths unknown to the United States Internal Revenue authorities.  Mr. Sutton shook hands with everybody, including Jake Wheeler.  Well he might.  He came to Coniston a private citizen, and drove away to all intents and purposes a congressman:  the darling wish of his life realized after heaven knows how many caucuses and conventions of disappointment, when Jethro had judged it expedient for one reason or another that a north countryman should go.  By the time the pair reached Brampton, Chamberlain Bixby was introducing his chief as Congressman Sutton, and by this title he was known for many years to come.

Another day, when the snow lay in great billows on the ground and filled the mountain valleys, when the pines were rusty from the long winter, two other visitors drove to Coniston in a two-horse sleigh.  The sun was shining brightly, the wind held its breath, and the noon-day warmth was almost like that of spring.  Those who know the mountain country will remember the joy of many such days.  Cynthia, standing in the sun on the porch, breathing deep of the pure air, recognized, as the sleigh drew near, the somewhat portly gentleman driving, and the young woman beside him regally clad in furs who looked patronizingly at the tannery house as she took the reins.  The young woman was Miss Cassandra Hopkins, and the portly gentleman, the Honorable Alva himself, patron of the drama, who had entered upon his governorship and now wished to be senator.

“Jethro Bass home?” he called out.

“Mr. Bass is home,” answered Cynthia.  The girl in the sleigh murmured something, laughing a little, and Cynthia flushed.  Mr. Hopkins gave a somewhat peremptory knock at the door and was admitted by Millicent Skinner, but Cynthia stood staring at Cassandra in the sleigh, some instinct warning her of a coming skirmish.

“Do you live here all the year round?”

“Of course,” said Cynthia.

Miss Cassandra shrugged as though that were beyond her comprehension.

“I’d die in a place like this,” she said.  “No balls, or theatres.  Doesn’t your father take you around the state?”

“My father’s dead,” said Cynthia.

“Oh!  Your name’s Cynthia Wetherell, isn’t it?  You know Bob Worthington, don’t you?  He’s gone to Harvard now, but he was a great friend of mine at Andover.”

Cynthia didn’t answer.  It would not be fair to say that she felt a pang, though it might add to the romance of this narrative.  But her dislike for the girl in the sleigh decidedly increased.  How was she, in her inexperience, to know that the radiant beauty in furs was what the boys at Phillips Andover called an “old stager.”