"Why," exclaimed Mr. Dodd, with just a trace of awe in his voice, "that's
Somers Duncan, son of Millionaire Duncan down to the capital. I guess,"
he added, "I guess them two will be the richest men in the state some
day. Duncan come up from Harvard with Bob."

In a few minutes the game was in full swing, Brampton against Harwich,
the old rivalry in another form. Every advantage on either side awoke
thundering cheers from the partisans; beribboned young women sprang to
their feet and waved the Harwich blue at a home run, and were on the
verge of tears when the Brampton pitcher struck out their best batsman.
But beyond the facts that the tide was turning in Brampton's favor; that
young Mr. Worthington stopped a ball flying at a phenomenal speed and
batted another at a still more phenomenal speed which was not stopped;
that his name and Duncan's were mingled generously in the cheering, the
painter remembered little of the game. The exhibition of human passions
which the sight of it drew from an undemonstrative race: the shouting,
the comments wrung from hardy spirits off their guard, the joy and the
sorrow,--such things interested him more. High above the turmoil
Coniston, as through the ages, looked down upon the scene impassive.

He was aroused from these reflections by an incident. Some one had leaped
over the railing which separated the stand from the field and stood
before Cynthia,--a tanned and smiling young man in gray and crimson. His
honest eyes were alight with an admiration that was unmistakable to the
painter--perhaps to Cynthia also, for a glow that might have been of
annoyance or anger, and yet was like the color of the mountain sunrise,
answered in her cheek. Mr. Worthington reached out a large brown hand and
seized the girl's as it lay on her lap.

"Hello, Cynthia," he cried, "I've been looking for you all day. I thought