"My Lord above!" he gasped.

"Yes, it is true. Surely you must have guessed something of that sort, after Babbie's story of the policemen."

"I--I--well, I did sort of--of presume likely he must have got into some sort of--of difficulty, but I never thought 'twas bad as that. . . . Dear me! . . . Dear me!"

"My brother is younger than I; he is scarcely twenty-three years old. He and I are orphans. Our home was in Wisconsin. Father was killed in a railway accident and Mother and my brother Charles and I were left with very little money. We were in a university town and Mother took a few students as lodgers. Doctor Armstrong was one; I met him there, and before he left the medical college we were engaged to be married. Charlie was only a boy then, of course. Mother died three years later. Meanwhile Seymour--Doctor Armstrong--had located in Middleford, Connecticut, and was practicing medicine there. He came on, we were married, and I returned to Middleford with him. We had been married but a few years when he died--of pneumonia. That was the year after Babbie was born. Charles remained in Wisconsin, boarding with a cousin of Mother's, and, after he graduated from high school, entered one of the banks in the town. He was very successful there and the bank people liked him. After Seymour--my husband--died, he came East to see me at Middleford. One of Doctor Armstrong's patients, a bond broker in New Haven, took a fancy to him, or we thought he did, and offered him a position. He accepted, gave up his place at the bank in Wisconsin, and took charge of this man's Middleford office, making his home with Babbie and me. He was young, too young I think now, to have such a responsible position, but every one said he had a remarkably keen business mind and that his future was certain to be brilliant. And then--"

She paused. It was evident that the hard part of her story was coming. After a moment she went on.

"Charlie was popular with the young people there in Middleford. He was always a favorite, at home, at school, everywhere. Mother idolized him while she lived, so did I, so did Babbie. He was fond of society and the set he was friendly with was made up, for the most part, of older men with much more money than he. He was proud, he would not accept favors without repaying them, he liked a good time, perhaps he was a little fast; not dissipated--I should have known if he were that--but--careless--and what you men call a 'good fellow.' At any rate, he--"

Again she paused. Jed, sitting on the box, clasping his knee between his hands, waited anxiously for her to continue.

"Of course you can guess what happened," she said, sadly, after a moment. "It was the old story, that is all. Charlie was living beyond his means, got into debt and speculated in stocks, hoping to make money enough to pay those debts. The stocks went down and-- and--well, he took money belonging to his employer to protect his purchases."

She waited, perhaps expecting her companion to make some comment.

He did not and again she spoke.

"I know he meant only to borrow it," she declared. "I KNOW it. He isn't bad, Mr. Winslow; I know him better than any one and he ISN'T bad. If he had only come to me when he got into the trouble!

If he had only confided in me! But he was proud and--and he didn't. . . . Well, I won't tell you how his--his fault was discovered; it would take a long time and it isn't worth while.

They arrested him, he was tried and--and sent to prison for two years."

For the first time since she began her story Jed uttered a word.

"Sho!" he exclaimed. "Sho, sho! Dear me! The poor young feller!"

She looked up at him quickly. "Thank you," she said, gratefully.

"Yes, he was sent to prison. He was calm and resigned and very brave about it, but to me it was a dreadful shock. You see, he had taken so little money, not much over two thousand dollars. We could have borrowed it, I'm sure; he and I could have worked out the debt together. We could have done it; I would have worked at anything, no matter how hard, rather than have my brother branded all his life with the disgrace of having been in prison. But the man for whom he had worked was furiously angry at what he called Charlie's ingrat.i.tude; he would teach the young thief a lesson, he said. Our lawyer went to him; I went to him and begged him not to press the case. Of course Charlie didn't know of my going; he never would have permitted it if he had. But I went and begged and pleaded. It did no good. Why, even the judge at the trial, when he charged the jury, spoke of the defendant's youth and previous good character. . . ."

She covered her eyes with her hand. Poor Jed's face was a picture of distress.

"Now--now, Mrs. Armstrong," he urged, "don't, please don't. I--I wouldn't tell me any more about it, if I was you. Of course I'm-- I'm proud to think you believed I was worth while tellin' it to and all that, but--you mustn't. You'll make yourself sick, you know.

Just don't tell any more, please."

She took her hand away and looked at him bravely.

"There isn't any more to tell," she said. "I have told you this because I realized that Barbara had told you enough to make you imagine everything that was bad concerning my brother. And he is not bad, Mr. Winslow. He did a wrong thing, but I know--I KNOW he did not mean deliberately to steal. If that man he worked for had been--if he had been-- But there, he was what he was. He said thieves should be punished, and if they were punished when they were young, so much the better, because it might be a warning and keep them honest as they grew older. He told me that, Mr. Winslow, when I pleaded with him not to make Charles' disgrace public and not to wreck the boy's life. That was what he told me then. And they say," she added, bitterly, "that he prides himself upon being a staunch supporter of the church."

Jed let go of his knee with one hand in order to rub his chin.

"I have queer notions, I cal'late," he drawled. "If they wasn't queer they wouldn't be mine, I suppose. If I was--er--as you might say, first mate of all creation I'd put some church folks in jail and a good many jail folks in church. Seems's if the swap would be a help to both sides. . . . I--I hope you don't think I'm--er-- unfeelin', jokin', when you're in such worry and trouble," he added, anxiously. "I didn't mean it."

His anxiety was wasted. She had heard neither his first remark nor the apology for it. Her thoughts had been far from the windmill shop and its proprietor. Now, apparently awakening to present realities, she rose and turned toward the door.

"That was all," she said, wearily. "You know the whole truth now, Mr. Winslow. Of course you will not speak of it to any one else."

Then, noticing the hurt look upon his face, she added, "Forgive me.

I know you will not. If I had not known it I should not have confided in you. Thank you for listening so patiently."

She was going, but he touched her arm.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Armstrong," he faltered, "but--but wasn't there somethin' else? Somethin' you wanted to ask my advice about--or-- or--somethin'?"

She smiled faintly. "Yes, there was," she admitted. "But I don't know that it is worth while troubling you, after all. It is not likely that you can help me. I don't see how any one can."

"Probably you're right. I--I ain't liable to be much help to anybody. But I'm awful willin' to try. And sometimes, you know-- sometimes surprisin' things happen. 'Twas a--a mouse, or a ground mole, wasn't it, that helped the lion in the story book out of the sc.r.a.pe? . . . Not that I don't look more like a--er--giraffe than I do like a mouse," he added.

Mrs. Armstrong turned and looked at him once more. "You're very kind," she said. "And I know you mean what you say. . . . Why, yes, I'll tell you the rest. Perhaps," with the slight smile, "you CAN advise me, Mr. Winslow. You see--well, you see, my brother will be freed very shortly. I have received word that he is to be pardoned, his sentence is to be shortened because of what they call his good conduct. He will be free--and then? What shall he do then? What shall we all do? That is my problem."

She went on to explain. This was the situation: Her own income was barely sufficient for Barbara and herself to live, in the frugal way they were living, in a country town like Orham. That was why she had decided to remain there. No one in the village knew her story or the story of her brother's disgrace. But now, almost any day, her brother might be discharged from prison. He would be without employment and without a home. She would so gladly offer him a home with her--they could manage to live, to exist in some way, she said--but she knew he would not be content to have her support him. There was no chance of employment in Orham; he would therefore be forced to go elsewhere, to go wandering about looking for work. And that she could not bear to think of.

"You see," she said, "I--I feel as if I were the only helper and-- well--guardian the poor boy has. I can imagine," smiling wanly, "how he would scorn the idea of his needing a guardian, but I feel as if it were my duty to be with him, to stand by him when every one else has deserted him. Besides," after an instant's hesitation, "I feel--I suppose it is unreasonable, but I feel as if I had neglected my duty before; as if perhaps I had not watched him as carefully as I should, or encouraged him to confide in me; I can't help feeling that perhaps if I had been more careful in this way the dreadful thing might not have happened. . . . Oh," she added, turning away again, "I don't know why I am telling all these things to you, I'm sure. They can't interest you much, and the telling isn't likely to profit either of us greatly. But I am so alone, and I have brooded over my troubles so much. As I said I have felt as if I must talk with some one. But there--good morning, Mr. Winslow."

"Just a minute, please, Mrs. Armstrong; just a minute. Hasn't your brother got any friends in Middleford who could help him get some work--a job--you know what I mean? Seems as if he must have, or you must have."

"Oh, we have, I suppose. We had some good friends there, as well as others whom we thought were friends. But--but I think we both had rather die than go back there; I am sure I should. Think what it would mean to both of us."

Jed understood. She might have been surprised to realize how clearly he understood. She was proud, and it was plain to see that she had been very proud of her brother. And Middleford had been her home where she and her husband had spent their few precious years together, where her child was born, where, after her brother came, she had watched his rise to success and the apparent a.s.surance of a brilliant future. She had begun to be happy once more. Then came the crash, and shame and disgrace instead of pride and confidence. Jed's imagination, the imagination which was quite beyond the comprehension of those who called him the town crank, grasped it all--or, at least, all its essentials. He nodded slowly.

"I see," he said. "Yes, yes, I see. . . . Hum."

"Of course, any one must see. And to go away, to some city or town where we are not known--where could we go? What should we live on?

And yet we can't stay here; there is nothing for Charles to do."

"Um. . . . He was a--what did you say his trade was?"

"He was a bond broker, a kind of banker."

"Eh? . . . A kind of banker. . . . Sho! Did he work in a bank?"

"Why, yes, I told you he did, in Wisconsin, where he and I used to live."

"Hum. . . . Pretty smart at it, too, seems to me you said he was?"

"Yes, very capable indeed."

"I want to know. . . . Hum. . . . Sho!"

He muttered one or two more disjointed exclamations and then ceased to speak altogether, staring abstractedly at a crack in the floor.

All at once he began to hum a hymn. Mrs. Armstrong, whose nerves were close to the breaking point, lost patience.

"Good morning, Mr. Winslow," she said, and opened the door to the outer shop. This time Jed did not detain her. Instead he stared dreamily at the floor, apparently quite unconscious of her or his surroundings.

"Eh?" he drawled. "Oh, yes, good mornin',--good mornin'. . . .

Hum. . . .

'There is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Emmanuel's veins, And sinners plunged de de de de De de di dew dum de.'"