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, hush!" 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.
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