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Updated: May 7, 2025
He seized Wetherell's carpet-bag with one hand and Cynthia's arm with the other, and shouldered his way through the people, who parted when they saw who it was. "Uncle Jethro," cried Cynthia, breathlessly, "I didn't know you were a judge. What are you judge of?" "J-judge of clothes, Cynthy. D-don't you wish you had the red cloth to wear here?" "No, I don't," said Cynthia.
Wetherell put his hand to his head, but he did not dare to ask the question. Then Jethro Bass fixed his eyes upon him. "Hain't never mixed any in politics hev you n-never mixed any?" Wetherell's heart sank. "No," he answered. "D-don't take my advice d-don't." "What!" cried the storekeeper, so loudly that he frightened himself. "D-don't," repeated Jethro, imperturbably.
Worthington was, indeed, descending the steps and walking across the lawn toward them, nodding and smiling to acquaintances as he passed. To Wetherell's astonishment he made directly for the place where he was standing and held out his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" he said. "Perhaps you don't remember me, Bob Worthington."
Graves for a long time, and better than any other person in Brampton. Mr. Graves remembered Cynthia Ware, and indeed had spoken to Cynthia that day about her mother. Mr. Graves had also read poor William Wetherell's contributions to the Newcastle Guardian, and he had not read that paper since they had ceased. From time to time Mr.
"I can't say that I should have known you," answered the storekeeper. They were all absurdly silent, thinking of nothing to say and admiring the boy because he was at ease. "I hope you have a good seat at the exercises," he said, pressing Wetherell's hand again, and before he could thank him, Bob was off in the direction of the band stand.
One day, in the November following William Wetherell's death, Jethro Bass astonished Coniston by moving to the little cottage in the village which stood beside the disused tannery, and which had been his father's. It was known as the tannery house.
I have always thought of Cynthia Ware as a spirit." Jethro turned at the words, and came and stood looking over Wetherell's shoulder at the pictures of mother and daughter. In the rosewood box was a brooch and a gold ring Cynthia Ware's wedding ring and two small slips of yellow paper. William Wetherell opened one of these, disclosing a little braid of brown hair.
Rias he kep' store and done it well, brisker'n I ever see him, Rias was. Wait till I put some of them things back, and make you more comfortable, Will." He moved a few parcels and packages from Wetherell's feet and glanced at Cynthia as he did so.
Despite William Wetherell's principles, whatever these may have been, he was so carried away that he found himself with his watch in his hand, counting off the minutes as the roll-call went on. Fosters Opera House was some six squares distant, and by a liberal estimate Mr. Duncan and his advance guard ought to get back within twenty minutes of the time he left.
The locket fell open in William Wetherell's hand, for the clasp had become worn with time, and there was a picture of little Cynthia within: of little Cynthia, not so little now, a photograph taken in Brampton the year before. Wetherell laid it beside the daguerreotype. "She looks like her," he said aloud; "but the child is more vigorous, more human less like a spirit.
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