“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.