the lawn behind her,
and her own name called in a familiar voice. At that she hurried the
faster; but she could not run, and the picket fence was half a block
long, and Bob Worthington had an advantage over her. Of course it was
Bob, and he did not scruple to run, and in a few seconds he was leaning
over the fence in front of her. Now Cynthia was as red as a peony by
this time, and she almost hated him.

"Well, of all people, Cynthia Wetherell!" he cried; "didn't you hear me
calling after you?"

"Yes," said Cynthia.

"Why didn't you stop?"

"I didn't want to," said Cynthia, glancing at the distant group on the
porch, who were watching them. Suddenly she turned to him defiantly. "I
didn't know you were in that house, or in the capital," she said.

"And I didn't know you were," said Bob, upon whose masculine
intelligence the meaning of her words was entirely lost. "If I had known
it, you can bet I would have looked you up. Where are you staying?"

"At the Pelican House."

"What!" said Bob, "with all the politicians? How did you happen to go
there?"

"Mr. Bass asked my father and me to come down for a few days," answered
Cynthia, her color heightening again. Life is full of contrasts, and
Cynthia was becoming aware of some of them.

"Uncle Jethro?" said Bob.

"Yes, Uncle Jethro," said Cynthia, smiling in spite of herself. He
always made her smile.

"Uncle Jethro owns the Pelican House," said Bob.

"Does he? I knew he was a great man, but I didn't know how great he was
until I came down here."

Cynthia said this so innocently that Bob repented his flippancy on the
spot. He had heard occasional remarks of his elders about Jethro.

"I didn't mean quite that," he said, growing red in his turn. "Uncle
Jethro--Mr. Bass--is a great man of course. That's what I meant."

"And he's a very good man," said Cynthia, who understood now that he had
spoken a little lightly of Jethro, and resented it.

"I'm sure of it," said Bob, eagerly. Then Cynthia began to walk on,
slowly, and he followed her on the other side of the fence. "Hold on,"
he cried, "I haven't said half the things I want to say--yet."

"What do you want to say?" asked Cynthia, still walking. "I have to go."

"Oh, no, you don't! Wait just a minute--won't you?"

Cynthia halted, with apparent unwillingness, and put out her toe between
the pickets. Then she saw that there was a little patch on that toe, and
drew it in again.

"What do you want to say?