“I'll come at two o'clock to-morrow,” said he; “We're going on a picnic to-day, to Dalton's Bend, on the river. I wish I could get out of it.”
Just then there came a voice from the gateway.
“Bob! Bob Worthington!”
They both turned involuntarily. A slender girl with light brown hair was standing there, waving at him.
“Who's that?” asked Cynthia.
“That?” said Bob, in some confusion, “oh, that's Janet Duncan.”
“Good-by,” said Cynthia.
“I'm coming to-morrow,” he called after her, but she did not turn. In a little while she heard the carryall behind her clattering down the street, its passengers laughing and joking merrily. Her face burned, for she thought that they were laughing at her; she wished with all her heart that she had not stopped to talk with him at the palings. The girls, indeed, were giggling as the carryall passed, and she heard somebody call out his name, but nevertheless he leaned out of the seat and waved his hat at her, amid a shout of laughter. Poor Cynthia! She did not look at him. Tears of vexation were in her eyes, and the light of her joy at this visit to the capital flickered, and she wished she were back in Coniston. She thought it would be very nice to be rich, and to live in a great house in a city, and to go on picnics.
The light flickered, but it did not wholly go out. If it has not been shown that Cynthia was endowed with a fair amount of sense, many of these pages have been written in vain. She sat down for a while in the park and thought of the many things she had to be thankful for—not the least of which was Jethro's kindness. And she remembered that she was to see “Uncle Tom's Cabin” that evening.
Such are the joys and sorrows of fifteen!