"Sit down here, Uncle Jethro." He sat down on the mound beside her, very much perplexed. She still held his hand in hers. "Uncle Jethro," she said slowly, "you mustn't think I'm not grateful."
"N-no," he answered; "I don't think that, Cynthy. I know you be."
"I am grateful—I'm very grateful for everything you give me, although I should love you just as much if you didn't give me anything."
She was striving very hard not to offend him, for in some ways he was as sensitive as Wetherell himself. Even Coniston folk had laughed at the idiosyncrasy which Jethro had of dressing his wife in brilliant colors, and the girl knew this.
"G-got it for you to wear to Brampton on the Fourth of July, Cynthy," he said.
"Uncle Jethro, I couldn't wear that to Brampton!"
"You'd look like a queen," said he.
"But I'm not a queen," objected Cynthia.
"Rather hev somethin' else?"
"Yes," she said, looking at him suddenly with the gleam of laughter in her eyes, although she was on the verge of tears.