Jethro stepped out, passing Mr. Worthington as though he had already forgotten that gentleman's existence, and seized an armful of bark that lay under cover of a lean-to. Just then, heralded by a brightening of the western sky, a girl appeared down the road, her head bent a little as in thought, and if she saw the group by the tannery house she gave no sign. Two of them stared at her--Jake Wheeler and Mr. Worthington. Suddenly Jake, implike, turned and stared at Worthington. “Cynthy Ware, the minister's daughter,” he said. “Haven't I seen her in Brampton?” inquired Mr. Worthington, little thinking of the consequences of the question. “Guess you have,” answered Jake. “Cynthy goes to the Social Library, to git books. She knows more'n the minister himself, a sight more.” “Where does the minister live?” asked Mr. Worthington. Jake pulled him by the sleeve toward the road, and pointed to the low gable of the little parsonage under the elms on the hill beyond the meeting-house. The visitor gave a short glance at it, swung around and gave a longer glance at the figure disappearing in the other direction. He did not suspect that Jake was what is now called a news agency. Then Mr. Worthington turned to Jethro, who was stooping over the bark. “If you come to Brampton, call and see me,” he said. “You'll find me at Silas Wheelock's.” He got no answer, but apparently expected none, and he started off down the Brampton road in the direction Cynthia had taken. “That makes another,” said Jake, significantly, “and Speedy Bates says he never looks at wimmen. Godfrey, I wish I could see Moses now.” Mr. Worthington had not been quite ingenuous with Jake. To tell the truth, he had made the acquaintance of the Social Library and Miss Lucretia, and that lady had sung the praises of her favorite. Once out of sight of Jethro, Mr. Worthington quickened his steps, passed the store, where he was remarked by two of Jonah's customers, and his blood leaped when he saw the girl in front of him, walking faster now. Yes, it is a fact that Isaac Worthington's blood once leaped. He kept on, but when near her had a spasm of fright to make his teeth fairly chatter, and than another spasm followed, for Cynthia had turned around. “How do you do Mr. Worthington?” she said, dropping him a little courtesy. Mr. Worthington stopped in his tracks, and it was some time before he remembered to take off his woollen cap and sweep the mud with it. “You know my name!” he exclaimed. “It is known from Tarleton Four Corners to Harwich,” said Cynthia, “all that distance. To tell the truth,” she added, “those are the boundaries of my world.” And Mr. Worthington being still silent, “How do you like being a big frog in a little pond?” “If it were your pond, Miss Cynthia,” he responded gallantly, “I should be content to be a little frog.” “Would you?” she said; “I don't believe you.”