the state. Not many years before the time of which we write actual
disestablishment had occurred, when the town ceased--as a town--to pay
the salary of Priest Ware, as the minister was called. The father of
Jethro Bass, Nathan the currier, had once, in a youthful lapse, permitted
a Baptist preacher to immerse him in Coniston Water. This had been the
extent of Nathan's religion; Jethro had none at all, and was, for this
and other reasons, somewhere near the bottom of the social scale.

"Fox and geese!" repeated Jock, with his eyes still on Jethro's
retreating back. The builder of the meetinghouse rubbed a great, brown
arm, scratched his head, and turned and came face to face with Cynthia
Ware, in a poke bonnet.

Contrast is a favorite trick of authors, and no greater contrast is to be
had in Coniston than that between Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass. In the
first place; Cynthia was the minister's daughter, and twenty-one. I can
summon her now under the great maples of the village street, a virginal
figure, gray eyes that kindled the face shaded by the poke bonnet, and up
you went above the clouds.

"What about fox and geese, Jock?" said Cynthia.

"Jethro Bass," said Jock, who, by reason of his ability, was a privileged
character. "Mark my words, Cynthy, Jethro Bass is an all-fired sight
smarter that folks in this town think he be. They don't take notice of
him, because he don't say much, and stutters. He hain't be'n eddicated a
great deal, but I wouldn't be afeard to warrant he'd make a racket in the
world some of these days."

"Jock Hallowell!" cried Cynthia, the gray beginning to dance, "I suppose