Wetherell could only stare at him like a man who, with the halter about his neck, has been suddenly reprieved. But Jethro Bass did not appear to be waiting for thanks. He cleared his throat, and had Wetherell not been in such a condition himself, he would actually have suspected him of embarrassment. “Er--Wetherell?” “Yes?” “W-won't say nothin' about the mortgage--p-pay it when you can.” This roused the storekeeper to a burst of protest, but he stemmed it. “Hain't got the money, have you?” “No--but--” “If I needed money, d'ye suppose I'd bought the mortgage?” “No,” answered the still bewildered Wetherell, “of course not.” There he stuck, that other suspicion of political coercion suddenly rising uppermost. Could this be what the man meant? Wetherell put his hand to his head, but he did not dare to ask the question. Then Jethro Bass fixed his eyes upon him. “Hain't never mixed any in politics--hev you n-never mixed any?” Wetherell's heart sank. “No,” he answered. “D-don't--take my advice--d-don't.” “What!” cried the storekeeper, so loudly that he frightened himself. “D-don't,” repeated Jethro, imperturbably. There was a short silence, the storekeeper being unable to speak. Coniston Water, at the foot of the garden, sang the same song, but it seemed to Wetherell to have changed its note from sorrow to joy. “H-hear things, don't you--hear things in the store?” “Yes.” “Don't hear 'em. Keep out of politics, Will, s-stick to store-keepin' and--and literature.” Jethro got to his feet and turned his back on the storekeeper and picked up the parcel he had brought. “C-Cynthy well?” he inquired. “I--I'll call her,” said Wetherell, huskily. “She--she was down by the brook when you came.” But Jethro Bass did not wait. He took his parcel and strode down to Coniston Water, and there he found Cynthia seated on a rock with her toes in a pool. “How be you, Cynthy?” said he, looking down at her. “I'm well, Uncle Jethro,” said Cynthia. “R-remembered what I told you to call me, hev you,” said Jethro, plainly pleased. “Th-that's right. Cynthy?” Cynthia looked up at him inquiringly. “S-said you liked books--didn't you? S-said you liked books?” “Yes, I do,” she replied simply, “very much.” He undid the wrapping of the parcel, and there lay disclosed a book with a very gorgeous cover. He thrust it into the child's lap. “It's 'Robinson Crusoe'!” she exclaimed, and gave a little shiver of delight that made ripples in the pool. Then she opened it--not without awe, for William Wetherell's hooks were not clothed in this magnificent manner. “It's full of pictures,” cried Cynthia. “See, there he is making a ship!” “Y-you read it, Cynthy?” asked Jethro, a little anxiously. No, Cynthia hadn't. “L-like it, Cynthy--l-like it?” said he, not quite so anxiously. Cynthia looked up at him with a puzzled expression. “F-fetched it up from the capital for you, Cynthy--for you.” “For me!”