Part 21 (1/2)

”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.

”Yes, ma'am,” said Jed. ”I--I fetched it for Babbie. I just kind of thought maybe she'd like it.”

Barbara clasped her hands.

”Oh!” she exclaimed. ”Oh, is it for me.”

Jed answered.

”'Tis, if you want it,” he said.

”Want it? Why, Mamma, it's one of the very best mills! It's a five dollar one, Mamma!”

Mrs. Armstrong protested. ”Oh, I couldn't let you do that, Mr.

Winslow,” she declared. ”It is much too expensive a present. And besides--”

She checked herself just in time. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say that she did not know what they could do with it.

Their rooms at Mrs. Smalley's were not large. It was as if a dweller in a Harlem flat had been presented with a hippopotamus.

The maker of the mill looked about him, plainly seeking a place to deposit his burden.

”'Tisn't anything much,” he said, hastily. ”I--I'm real glad for you to have it.”

He was about to put it on top of the cookstove, in which there was a roaring fire, but Mrs. Armstrong, by a startled exclamation and a frantic rush, prevented his doing so. So he put it on the table instead. Barbara thanked him profusely. She was overjoyed; there were no comparisons with hippopotami in HER mind. Jed seemed pleased at her appreciation, but he did not smile. Instead he sighed.

”I--I just thought I wanted her to have it, ma'am,” he said, turning to Mrs. Armstrong. ”'Twould keep her from--from forgettin'

me altogether, maybe. . . . Not that there's any real reason why she should remember me, of course,” he added.

Barbara was hurt and indignant.

”Of COURSE I shan't forget you, Mr. Winslow,” she declared.

”Neither will Petunia. And neither will Mamma, I know. She feels awful bad because you don't want us to live here any longer, and--”

”Hush, Babbie, hus.h.!.+” commanded her mother. Barbara hushed, but she had said enough. Jed turned a wondering face in their direction. He stared without speaking.

Mrs. Armstrong felt that some one must say something.

”You mustn't mind what the child says, Mr. Winslow,” she explained, hurriedly. ”Of course I realize perfectly that this house is yours and you certainly have the right to do what you please with your own. And I have known all the time that we were here merely on trial.”