第33章

Now this Mrs.Armstrong here-- Say, she's some peach, ain't she!--she ain't seen me more'n half a dozen times, but here she is beggin' me to fetch her my photograph.'It's rainin' pretty hard, to-day,' I says.'Won't it do if I fetch it to-morrow?' But no, she--"Jed held up a protesting hand."I don't doubt she wants your photograph, Philander," he drawled."Your kind of face is rare.

But I heard you say somethin' about comin' for trunks.Whose trunks?""Whose? Why, hers and the young-one's, I presume likely.'Twas them I fetched from Luretta Smalley's.Now she wants me to take 'em back there."A tremendous gust, driven in from the sea, tore the sweater from the Winslow head and shoulders and wrapped it lovingly about one of the posts in the yard.Jed did not offer to recover it; he scarcely seemed to know that it was gone.Instead he stood staring at the express driver, while the rain ran down his nose and dripped from its tip to his chin.

"She--she's goin' back to Luretta Smalley's?" he repeated."She--"He did not finish the sentence.Instead he turned on his heel and walked slowly back to the shop.The sweater, wrapped about the post where, in summer, a wooden sailor brandished his paddles, flapped soggily in the wind.Hardy gazed after him.

"What in time--?" he exclaimed.Then, raising his voice, he called: "Hi, Jed! Jed! You crazy critter! What--Jed, hold on a minute, didn't you know she was goin'? Didn't she tell you? Jed!"But Jed had entered the shop and closed the door.Philander drove off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

A few minutes later Mrs.Armstrong, hearing a knock at the rear door of the Winslow house, opened it to find her landlord standing on the threshold.He was bareheaded and he had no umbrella.

"Why, Mr.Winslow!" she exclaimed.It was the first time that he had come to that house of his own accord since she had occupied it.

Now he stood there, in the rain, looking at her without speaking.

"Why, Mr.Winslow," she said again."What is it? Come in, won't you? You're soaking wet.Come in!"Jed looked down at the sleeves of his jacket."Eh?" he drawled, slowly."Wet? Why, I don't know's I ain't--a little.It's--it's rainin'.""Raining! It's pouring.Come in."

She took him by the arm and led him through the woodshed and into the kitchen.She would have led him further, into the sitting-room, but he hung back.

"No, ma'am, no," he said."I--I guess I'll stay here, if you don't mind."There was a patter of feet from the sitting-room and Barbara came running, Petunia in her arms.At the sight of their visitor's lanky form the child's face brightened.

"Oh, Mr.Winslow!" she cried."Did you come to see where Petunia and I were? Did you?"Jed looked down at her."Why--why, I don't know's I didn't," he admitted."I--I kind of missed you, I guess.""Yes, and we missed you.You see, Mamma said we mustn't go to the shop to-day because-- Oh, Mamma, perhaps he has come to tell you we won't have to--"Mrs.Armstrong interrupted."Hush, Babbie," she said, quickly."Itold Barbara not to go to visit you to-day, Mr.Winslow.She has been helping me with the packing."Jed swallowed hard."Packin'?" he repeated."You've been packin'?

Then 'twas true, what Philander Hardy said about your goin' back to Luretta's?"The lady nodded."Yes," she replied."Our month here ends to-day.

Of course you knew that."

Jed sighed miserably."Yes, ma'am," he said, "I knew it, but Ionly just realized it, as you might say.I...Hum!...

Well..."

He turned away and walked slowly toward the kitchen door.Barbara would have followed but her mother laid a detaining hand upon her shoulder.On the threshold of the door between the dining-room and kitchen Jed paused.

"Ma'am," he said, hesitatingly, "you--you don't cal'late there's anything I can do to--to help, is there? Anything in the packin'

or movin' or anything like that?"

"No, thank you, Mr.Winslow.The packing was very simple.""Er--yes, ma'am....Yes, ma'am."

He stopped, seemed about to speak again, but evidently changed his mind, for he opened the door and went out into the rain without another word.Barbara, very much surprised and hurt, looked up into her mother's face.

"Why, Mamma," she cried, "has--has he GONE? He didn't say good-by to us or--or anything.He didn't even say he was sorry we were going."Mrs.Armstrong shook her head.

"I imagine that is because he isn't sorry, my dear," she replied.

"You must remember that Mr.Winslow didn't really wish to let any one live in this house.We only came here by--well, by accident."But Barbara was unconvinced.

"He ISN'T glad," she declared, stoutly."He doesn't act that way when he is glad about things.You see," she added, with the air of a Mrs.Methusaleh, "Petunia and I know him better than you do, Mamma; we've had more chances to get--to get acquainted."Perhaps an hour later there was another knock at the kitchen door.

Mrs.Armstrong, when she opened it, found her landlord standing there, one of his largest windmills--a toy at least three feet high--in his arms.He bore it into the kitchen and stood it in the middle of the floor, holding the mammoth thing, its peaked roof high above his head, and peering solemnly out between one of its arms and its side.

"Why, Mr.Winslow!" exclaimed Mrs.Armstrong.