m Boston railroad presidents. I call Isaac
Worthington to mind when he wahn't but a slip of a boy with a cough,
runnin' after Cynthy Ware." She glanced down at Cynthia with something
of compassion. "Just to think, child, he might have be'n your father!"

"I'm glad he isn't," said Cynthia, hotly.

"Of course, of course," replied the good-natured and well-intentioned
Amanda, "I'd sooner have your father than Isaac Worthington. But I was
only thinkin' how nice it would be to be rich."

Just then one of the glass-panelled doors of this house opened, and a
good-looking lad of seventeen came out.

"That's Bob Worthington," said Amanda, determined that they should miss
nothing. "My! it wahn't but the other day when he put on long pants. It
won't be a great while before he'll go into the mills and git all that
money. Guess he'll marry some city person. He'd ought to take you,
Cynthy."

"I don't want him," said Cynthia, the color flaming into her cheeks. And
she went off across the green in search of Jethro.

There was a laugh from the honest country folk who had listened. Bob
Worthington came to the edge of the porch and stood there, frankly
scanning the crowd, with an entire lack of self-consciousness. Some of
them shifted nervously, with the New Englander's dislike of being caught
in the act of sight-seeing.

"What in the world is he starin' at me for?" said Amanda, backing behind
the bulkier form of her husband. "As I live, I believe he's comin'
here."

Young Mr. Worthington was, indeed, descending the steps and walking
across the lawn toward them, nodding and smiling to acquaintances as he
passed. To Wetherell's astonishment he made directly for the place where
he was standing and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" he said. "Perhaps you don't remember
me,--Bob Worthington."

"I can't say that I should have known you," answered the storekeeper.
They were all absurdly silent, thinking of nothing to say and admiring
the boy because he was at ease.

"I hope you have a good seat at the exercises," he said, pressing
Wetherell's hand again, and before he could thank him, Bob was off in
the direction of the band stand.

"One thing," remarked Amanda, "he ain't much like his dad. You'd never
catch Isaac Worthington bein' that common."

Just then there came another interruption for William Wetherell, who was
startled by the sound of a voice in his ear--a nasal voice that awoke
unpleasant recollections