“Weren't you a little hard on him?” he said.
For answer Cynthia got to her feet.
“I think we ought to be going home,” she said.
“Going home!” he ejaculated in amazement.
“I promised Uncle Jethro I'd be there for supper,” and she led the way out of the grand stand.
So they drove back to Coniston through the level evening light, and when they came to Ephraim Prescott's harness shop the old soldier waved at them cheerily from under the big flag which he had hung out in honor of the day. The flag was silk, and incidentally Ephraim's most valued possession. Then they drew up before the tannery house, and Cynthia leaped out of the buggy and held out her hand to the painter with a smile.
“It was very good of you to take me,” she said.
Jethro Bass, rugged, uncouth, in rawhide boots and swallowtail and coonskin cap, came down from the porch to welcome her, and she ran toward him with an eagerness that started the painter to wondering afresh over the contrasts of life. What, he asked himself, had Fate in store for Cynthia Wetherell?