“Did you hear what he said about the Brampton postoffice?” she cried.

“The Brampton post-office?” he repeated; dazed.

“Yes,” said Cynthia; “Uncle Jethro has promised it to Cousin Ephraim, who will starve without it.  Did you hear this man say he would give it to Mr. Wheelock?”

Here was a new Cynthia, aflame with emotions on a question of politics of which he knew nothing.  He did, understand, however, her concern for Ephraim Prescott, for he knew that she loved the soldier.  She turned from the painter now with a gesture which he took to mean that his profession debarred him from such vital subjects, and she led the way to the fair-grounds.  There he meekly bought tickets, and they found themselves hurried along in the eager crowd toward the stand.

The girl was still unaccountably angry over that mysterious affair of the post-office, and sat with flushed cheeks staring out on the green field, past the line of buggies and carryalls on the farther side to the southern shoulder of Coniston towering, above them all.  The painter, already, beginning to love his New England folk, listened to the homely chatter about him, until suddenly a cheer starting in one corner ran like a flash of gunpowder around the field, and eighteen young men trotted across the turf.  Although he was not a devotee of sport, he noticed that nine of these, as they took their places on the bench, wore blue,—­the Harwich Champions.  Seven only of those scattering over the field wore white; two young gentlemen, one at second base and the other behind the batter, wore gray uniforms with crimson stockings, and crimson piping on the caps, and a crimson H embroidered on the breast—­a sight that made the painter’s heart beat a little faster, the honored livery of his own college.

“What are those two Harvard men doing here?” he asked.

Cynthia, who was leaning forward, started, and turned to him a face which showed him that his question had been meaningless.  He repeated it.

“Oh,” said she, “the tall one, burned brick-red like an Indian, is Bob Worthington.”

“He’s a good type,” the artist remarked.

“You’re right, Mister, there hain’t a finer young feller anywhere,” chimed in Mr. Dodd, a portly person with a tuft of yellow beard on his chin.  Mr. Dodd kept the hardware store in Brampton.

“And who,” asked the painter, “is the bullet-headed little fellow, with freckles and short red hair, behind the bat?”

“I don’t know,” said Cynthia, indifferently.

“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Dodd, with just a trace of awe in his voice, “that’s Somers Duncan, son of Millionaire Duncan down to the capital.  I guess,” he added, “I guess them two will be the richest men in the state some day.  Duncan come up from Harvard with Bob.”