"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. "I
told 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.
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