"Oh, no," she said. "This one will be perfectly comfortable,
I'm sure, only--"
"Yes? Is there somethin' the matter with it?"
"Not the matter with it, exactly, but it seems to be--occupied."
Jed stepped forward and peered over the workbench at the chair.
Its seat was piled high with small pasteboard boxes containing
hardware-screws, tacks and metal washers--which he used in his mill
and vane-making.
"Sho!" he exclaimed. "Hum! Does seem to be taken, as you say. I
recollect now; a lot of that stuff came in by express day before
yesterday afternoon and I piled it up there while I was unpackin'
it. Here!" apparently addressing the hardware, "you get out of
that. That seat's reserved."
He stretched a long arm over the workbench, seized the chair by the
back and tipped it forward. The pasteboard boxes went to the floor
in a clattering rush. One containing washers broke open and the
little metal rings rolled everywhere. Mr. Winslow did not seem to
mind.
"There!" he exclaimed, with evident satisfaction; "sit right down,
ma'am."
The lady sat as requested, her feet amid the hardware boxes and her
hands upon the bench before her. She was evidently very nervous,
for her fingers gripped each other tightly. And, when she next
spoke, she did not look at her companion.
"Mr. Winslow," she began, "I--I believe--that is, Babbie tells me
that--that last evening, when you and she were on your way back
here in the boat, she said something--she told you something
concerning our--my--family affairs which--which--"
She faltered, seeming to find it hard to continue.
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