sly, forgetting his own
troubles.

"Bob Worthington."

"Are you the son of Dudley Worthington"

"Everybody asks me that," he said; "I'm tired of it. When I grow up,
they'll have to stop it."

"But you should be proud of your father."

"I am proud of him, everybody's proud of him, Brampton's proud of
him--he's proud of himself. That's enough, ain't it?" He eyed Wetherell
somewhat defiantly, then his glance wandered to Cynthia, and he walked
over to her. He threw himself down on the grass in front of her, and
lay looking up at her solemnly. For a while she continued to stare
inflexibly at the line of market wagons, and then she burst into a
laugh.

"Thought you wouldn't hold out forever," he remarked.

"It's because you're so foolish," said Cynthia, "that's why I laughed."
Then she grew sober again and held out her hand to him. "Good-by."

"Where are you going?"

"I must go back to my father. I--I think he doesn't feel very well."

"Next time I'll make a whistle for you," he called after her.

"And give it to somebody else," said Cynthia.

She had hold of her father's hand by that, but he caught up with her,
very red in the face.

"You know that isn't true," he cried angrily, and taking his way across
Brampton Street, turned, and stood staring after them until they were
out of sight.

"Do you like him, Daddy?" asked Cynthia.

William Wetherell did not answer. He had other things to think about.

"Daddy?"

"Yes."

"Does your trouble feel any better?"

"Some, Cynthia. But you mustn't think about it."

"Daddy, why don't you ask Uncle Jethro to help you?"

At the name Wetherell started as if he had had a shock.

"What put him into your head, Cynthia?" he asked sharply. "Why do you
call him 'Uncle Jethro'?"

"Because he asked me to. Because he likes me, and I like him."

The whole thing was a riddle he could not solve--one that was best left
alone. They had agreed to walk back the ten miles to Coniston, to save
the money that dinner at the hotel would cost. And so they started,
Cynthia flitting hither and thither along the roadside, picking the
stately purple iris flowers in the marshy places, while Wetherell
pondered.

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IX

When William Wetherell and Cynthia had reached the last turn in the
road in Northcutt's woods, quarter of a mile from Coniston, they met the
nasal Mr. Samuel Price driving silently in the other direction. The
word "silently" is used delibera