That Mr. What's-
his-name--er--Wright--no, Reed--I got read and write mixed up, I
guess--he's a business man and he'd ought to know about such things
better'n I do. I don't doubt it'll come out fine and we won't
worry any more about it."
"And we will still be friends? You know, Mr. Winslow, you are the
only real friend I have in Orham. And you have been so loyal."
Jed flushed with pleasure.
"I--I told you once," he said, "that my friends generally called me
'Jed.'"
She laughed. "Very well, I'll call you 'Jed,'" she said. "But turn
about is fair play and you must call me 'Ruth.' Will you? Oh,
there's Babbie calling me. Thank you again, for Charles' sake and
my own. Good morning--Jed."
"Er--er--good mornin', Mrs. Armstrong."
"What?"
"Er--I mean Mrs. Ruth."
The most of that forenoon, that is the hour or so remaining, was
spent by Mr. Winslow in sitting by the workbench and idly
scratching upon a board with the point of the chisel. Sometimes
his scratches were meaningless, sometimes they spelled a name, a
name which he seemed to enjoy spelling. But at intervals during
that day, and on other days which followed, he was conscious of an
uneasy feeling, a feeling almost of guilt coupled with a dim
foreboding.
Ruth Armstrong had called him a friend and loyal. But had he been
as loyal to an older friend, a friend he had known all his life?
Had he been loyal to Captain Sam Hunniwell?
That was the feeling of guilt.
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