At this instant a diversion occurred—a trifling diversion, so it seemed at the time. Around the corner of the store, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair flying, ran little Cynthia, her hands, browned already by the Coniston sun, filled with wild strawberries.
“See what I've found, Daddy!” she cried, “see what I've found!”
Jethro Bass started, and flung back his head like a man who has heard a voice from another world, and then he looked at the child with a kind of stupefaction. The cry, died on Cynthia's lips, and she stopped, gazing up at him with wonder in her eyes.
“F-found strawberries?” said Jethro, at last.
“Yes,” she answered. She was very grave and serious now, as was her manner in dealing with people.
“S-show 'em to me,” said Jethro.
Cynthia went to him, without embarrassment, and put her hand on his knee. Not once had he taken his eyes from her face. He put out his own hand with an awkward, shy movement, picked a strawberry from her fingers, and thrust it in his mouth.
“Mm,” said Jethro, gravely. “Er—what's your name, little gal—what's your name?”
“Cynthia.”
There was a long pause.