"I believe," said Cynthia heroically, "I believe it was a boy named
Somers Duncan-and Bob Worthington."

"Er--Bob Worthington," repeated Jethro, but said nothing more.

Of course Coniston, and presently Brampton, knew that Bob Worthington had
serenaded Cynthia--and Coniston and Brampton talked. It is noteworthy
that (with the jocular exceptions of Ephraim and Lem Hallowell) they did
not talk to the girl herself. The painter had long ago discovered that
Cynthia was an individual. She had good blood in her: as a mere child she
had shouldered the responsibility of her father; she had a natural
aptitude for books--a quality reverenced in the community; she visited,
as a matter of habit; the sick and the unfortunate; and lastly (perhaps
the crowning achievement) she had bound Jethro Bass, of all men, with the
fetters of love. Of course I have ended up by making her a paragon,
although I am merely stating what people thought of her. Coniston decided
at once that she was to marry the heir to the Brampton Mills.

But the heir had gone West, and as the summer wore on, the gossip died
down. Other and more absorbing gossip took its place: never distinctly
formulated, but whispered; always wishing for more definite news that
never came. The statesmen drove out from Brampton to the door of the
tannery house, as usual, only it was remarked by astute observers and
Jake Wheeler that certain statesmen did not come who had been in the
habit of coming formerly. In short, those who made it a custom to observe
such matters felt vaguely a disturbance of some kind. The organs of the
people felt it, and became more guarded in their statements. What no one
knew, except Jake and a few in high places, was that a war of no mean
magnitude was impending.