“Er—er—Cynthia?” he said at length, “Cynthia?”
“Cynthia.”
“Er-er, Cynthia—not Cynthy?”
“Cynthia,” she said again.
He bent over her and lowered his voice.
“M-may I call you Cynthy—Cynthy?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” answered Cynthia, looking up to her father and then glancing shyly at Jethro.
His eyes were on the mountain, and he seemed to have forgotten her until she reached out to him, timidly, another strawberry. He seized her little hand instead and held it between his own—much to the astonishment of his friends.
“Whose little gal be you?” he asked.
“Dad's.”