There were five other songs—­Cynthia remembers all of them, although she would not confess such a thing.  “Naughty, naughty Clara,” was another one; the other three were almost wholly about love, some treating it flippantly, others seriously—­this applied to the last one, which had many farewells in it.  Then they went away, and the crickets and frogs on Coniston Water took up the refrain.

Although the occurrence was unusual,—­it might almost be said epoch-making,—­Jethro did not speak of it until they had reached the sparkling heights of Thousand Acre Hill the next morning.  Even then he did not look at Cynthia.

“Know who that was last night, Cynthy?” he inquired, as though the matter were a casual one.

“I believe,” said Cynthia heroically, “I believe it was a boy named Somers Duncan-and Bob Worthington.”

“Er—­Bob Worthington,” repeated Jethro, but said nothing more.

Of course Coniston, and presently Brampton, knew that Bob Worthington had serenaded Cynthia—­and Coniston and Brampton talked.  It is noteworthy that (with the jocular exceptions of Ephraim and Lem Hallowell) they did not talk to the girl herself.  The painter had long ago discovered that Cynthia was an individual.  She had good blood in her:  as a mere child she had shouldered the responsibility of her father; she had a natural aptitude for books—­a quality reverenced in the community; she visited, as a matter of habit; the sick and the unfortunate; and lastly (perhaps the crowning achievement) she had bound Jethro Bass, of all men, with the fetters of love.  Of course I have ended up by making her a paragon, although I am merely stating what people thought of her.  Coniston decided at once that she was to marry the heir to the Brampton Mills.

But the heir had gone West, and as the summer wore on, the gossip died down.  Other and more absorbing gossip took its place:  never distinctly formulated, but whispered; always wishing for more definite news that never came.  The statesmen drove out from Brampton to the door of the tannery house, as usual, only it was remarked by astute observers and Jake Wheeler that certain statesmen did not come who had been in the habit of coming formerly.  In short, those who made it a custom to observe such matters felt vaguely a disturbance of some kind.  The organs of the people felt it, and became more guarded in their statements.  What no one knew, except Jake and a few in high places, was that a war of no mean magnitude was impending.

There were three men in the State—­and perhaps only three—­who realized from the first that all former political combats would pale in comparison to this one to come.  Similar wars had already started in other states, and when at length they were fought out another twist had been given to the tail of a long-suffering Constitution; political history in the United States had to be written from an entirely new and unforeseen standpoint, and the unsuspecting people had changed masters.