Part 10 (1/2)

The young lady's toe marked a circle on the shop floor.

”No-o,” she confessed, ”I--I guess she doesn't, not just exactly.”

”I shouldn't be surprised. And so you've come back because you was afraid, eh?”

She swallowed hard and edged a little nearer to him.

”No-o,” she declared, stoutly, ”I--I wasn't afraid, not very; but-- but I thought the--the swordfish was pretty heavy to carry all alone and--and so--”

Jed laughed aloud, something that he rarely did.

”Good for you, sis!” he exclaimed. ”Now you just wait until I get my hat and we'll carry that heavy fish home together.”

Miss Armstrong looked decidedly happier.

”Thank you very much,” she said. ”And--and, if you please, my name is Barbara.”

CHAPTER IV

The Smalley residence, where Mrs. Luretta Smalley, relict of the late Zenas T., accommodated a few ”paying guests,” was nearly a mile from the windmill shop and on the Orham ”lower road.” Mr.

Winslow and his new acquaintance took the short cuts, through by- paths and across fields, and the young lady appeared to have thoroughly recovered from her misgivings concerning the dark--in reality it was scarcely dusk--and her doubts concerning her ability to carry the ”heavy” swordfish without help. At all events she insisted upon carrying it alone, telling her companion that she thought perhaps he had better not touch it as it was so very, very brittle and might get broken, and consoling him by offering to permit him to carry Petunia, which fragrant appellation, it appeared, was the name of the doll.

”I named her Petunia after a flower,” she explained. ”I think she looks like a flower, don't you?”

If she did it was a wilted one. However, Miss Armstrong did not wait for comment on the part of her escort, but chatted straight on. Jed learned that her mother's name was Mrs. Ruth Phillips Armstrong. ”It used to be Mrs. Seymour Armstrong, but it isn't now, because Papa's name was Doctor Seymour Armstrong and he died, you know.”And they lived in a central Connecticut city, but perhaps they weren't going to live there any more because Mamma had sold the house and didn't know exactly WHAT to do. And they had been in Orham ever since before the Fourth of July, and they liked it EVER so much, it was so quaint and--and ”franteek”--

Jed interrupted here. ”So quaint and what?” he demanded.

”Franteek.” Miss Barbara herself seemed a little doubtful of the word. At any rate Mamma said it was something like that, and it meant they liked it anyway. So Mr. Winslow was left to ponder whether ”antique” or ”unique” was intended and to follow his train of thought wherever it chanced to lead him, while the child prattled on. They came in sight of the Smalley front gate and Jed came out of his walking trance to hear her say:

”Anyway, we like it all but the sal'ratus biscuits and the coffee and THEY are dreadful. Mamma thinks it's made of chickenry--the coffee, I mean.”

At the gate Jed's ”queerness,” or shyness, came upon him. The idea of meeting Mrs. Armstrong or even the members of the Smalley family he shrank from. Barbara invited him to come in, but he refused even to accompany her to the door.

”I'll just run along now,” he said, hurriedly. ”Good night.”

The child put out her hand. ”Good night,” she said. ”Thank you very much for helping me carry the fish home. I'm coming to see you again some day.”

She scampered up the walk. Jed, waiting in the shadow of the lilac bushes by the fence, saw her rattle the latch of the door, saw the door open and the child caught up in the arms of a woman, who cried: ”Oh, Babbie, dear, where HAVE you been? Mamma was SO frightened!”

He smiled over the memory of the little girl's visit more than once that evening. He was very fond of children and their society did not embarra.s.s or annoy him as did the company of most grown-ups-- strangers, that is. He remembered portions of Miss Barbara's conversation and determined to repeat them to Captain Sam Hunniwell, the next time the latter called.

And that next time was the following forenoon. Captain Sam, on the way to his office at the bank, stopped his car at the edge of the sidewalk and came into the shop. Jed, having finished painting wooden sailors for the present, was boxing an a.s.sorted collection of mills and vanes to be sent South, for a certain demand for ”Winslow mills” was developing at the winter as well as the summer resorts. It was far from winter yet, but this purchaser was forehanded.

”h.e.l.lo, Jed,” hailed the captain, ”busy as usual. You've got the busy bee a mile astern so far as real hustlin' is concerned.”

Jed took a nail from the half dozen held between his lips and applied its point to the box top. His sentences for the next few minutes were mumbled between nails and punctuated with blows of the hammer.