ived with Jethro. The Honorable Heth Sutton drove
over from Clovelly attended by his prime minister, Mr. Bijah Bixby. The
Honorable Heth did not attempt to conceal the smile with which he went
away, and he stopped at the store long enough to enable Rias to produce
certain refreshments from depths unknown to the United States Internal
Revenue authorities. Mr. Sutton shook hands with everybody, including
Jake Wheeler. Well he might. He came to Coniston a private citizen, and
drove away to all intents and purposes a congressman: the darling wish of
his life realized after heaven knows how many caucuses and conventions of
disappointment, when Jethro had judged it expedient for one reason or
another that a north countryman should go. By the time the pair reached
Brampton, Chamberlain Bixby was introducing his chief as Congressman
Sutton, and by this title he was known for many years to come.

Another day, when the snow lay in great billows on the ground and filled
the mountain valleys, when the pines were rusty from the long winter, two
other visitors drove to Coniston in a two-horse sleigh. The sun was
shining brightly, the wind held its breath, and the noon-day warmth was
almost like that of spring. Those who know the mountain country will
remember the joy of many such days. Cynthia, standing in the sun on the
porch, breathing deep of the pure air, recognized, as the sleigh drew
near, the somewhat portly gentleman driving, and the young woman beside
him regally clad in furs who looked patronizingly at the tannery house as
she took the reins. The young woman was Miss Cassandra Hopkins, and the
portly gentleman, the Honorable Alva himself, patron of the drama, who
had entered upon his governorship and now wished to be senator.

"Jethro Bass home?" he called out.

"Mr. Bass is home," answered Cynthia. The girl in the sleigh murmured
something, laughing a little, and Cynthia flushed. Mr. Hopkins gave a
somewhat peremptory knock at the door and was admitted by Millicent
Skinner, but Cynthia stood staring at Cassandra in the sleigh, some
instinct warning her of a coming skirmish.

"Do you live here all the year round?"

"Of course," said Cynthia.

Miss Cassandra shrugged as though that were beyond her comprehension.

"I'd die in a place like this," she said. "No balls, or theatres. Doesn't
your father take you around the state?"

"My father's dead," said Cynthia.

"Oh! Your name's Cynthia Wetherell, isn't it? You know B