“Want to go to Harwich, Will?” he asked.
William set his cup down quickly.
“You hain't afeard, be you?” he continued. “Most folks that hasn't went West or died is afeard of Jethro Bass.”
“Daddy isn't afraid of him, and I'm not,” said Cynthia.
“That's right, Cynthy,” said Lem, leaning over and giving a tug to the pigtail that hung down her back; “there hain't nothin' to be afeard of.”
“I like him,” said Cynthia; “he's very good to me.”
“You stick to him, Cynthy,” said the stage driver.
“Ready, Will?”
It may readily be surmised that Mr. Wetherell did not particularly wish to make this excursion, the avowed object of which was to get Mr. Bass into trouble. But he went, and presently he found himself jogging along on the mountain road to Harwich. From the crest of Town's End ridge they looked upon the western peaks tossing beneath a golden sky. The spell of the evening's beauty seemed to have fallen on them both, and for a long time Lem spoke not a word, and nodded smilingly but absently to the greetings that came from the farm doorways.
“Will,” he said at last, “you acted sensible. There's no mite of use of your gettin' mixed up in politics. You're too good for 'em.”