e 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."

In a few minutes the game was in full swing, Brampton against Harwich,
the old rivalry in another form. Every advantage on either side awoke
thundering cheers from the partisans; beribboned young women sprang to
their feet and waved the Harwich blue at a home run, and were on the
verge of tears when the Brampton pitcher struck out their best batsman.
But beyond the facts that the tide was turning in Brampton's favor; that
young Mr. Worthington stopped a ball flying at a phenomenal speed and
batted another at a still more phenomenal speed which was not stopped;
that his name and Duncan's were mingled generously in the cheering, the
painter remembered little of the game. The exhibition of human passions
which the sight of it drew from an undemonstrative race: the shouting,
the comments wrung from hardy spirits off their guard, the joy and
the sorrow,--such things interested him more. High above the turmoil
Coniston, as through the ages, looked down upon the scene impassive.

He was aroused from these reflections by an incident. Some one had
leaped over the railing which separated the stand from the field and
stood before Cynthia,--a tanned and smiling young man in gray and
crimson. His honest eyes were alight with an admiration that was
unmistakable to the painter--perhaps to Cynthia also, for a glow that
might have been of annoyance or anger, and yet was like the color of the
mountain sunrise, answered in