Just then one of the glass-panelled doors of this house opened, and a
good-looking lad of seventeen came out.

"That's Bob Worthington," said Amanda, determined that they should miss
nothing. "My! it wahn't but the other day when he put on long pants. It
won't be a great while before he'll go into the mills and git all that
money. Guess he'll marry some city person. He'd ought to take you,
Cynthy."

"I don't want him," said Cynthia, the color flaming into her cheeks. And
she went off across the green in search of Jethro.

There was a laugh from the honest country folk who had listened. Bob
Worthington came to the edge of the porch and stood there, frankly
scanning the crowd, with an entire lack of self-consciousness. Some of
them shifted nervously, with the New Englander's dislike of being caught
in the act of sight-seeing.

"What in the world is he starin' at me for?" said Amanda, backing behind
the bulkier form of her husband. "As I live, I believe he's comin' here."

Young Mr. Worthington was, indeed, descending the steps and walking
across the lawn toward them, nodding and smiling to acquaintances as he
passed. To Wetherell's astonishment he made directly for the place where
he was standing and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" he said. "Perhaps you don't remember
me,--Bob Worthington."

"I can't say that I should have known you," answered the storekeeper. They