“Eh—­er—­references?” he repeated.

“Why, why, of course.  I’d want references from the folks he’d worked for, statin’ that he was honest and capable and all that.  With those I’d hire him in two minutes, as I said.  You fetch him along and see.  So long, Jed.  See you later.”

He hustled out, stopping to tear from the outer door the placard directing callers to call at Abijah Thompson’s.  Jed returned to his box and sat down once more to ponder.  In his innocence it had not occurred to him that references would be required.

That evening, about nine, he crossed the yard and knocked at the back door of the little house.  Mrs. Armstrong answered the knock; Barbara, of course, was in bed and asleep.  Ruth was surprised to see her landlord at that, for him, late hour.  Also, remembering the unceremonious way in which he had permitted her to depart at the end of their interview that forenoon, she was not as cordial as usual.  She had made him her confidant, why she scarcely knew; then, after expressing great interest and sympathy, he had suddenly seemed to lose interest in the whole matter.  She was acquainted with his eccentricities and fits of absent-mindedness, but nevertheless she had been hurt and offended.  She told herself that she should have expected nothing more from “Shavings” Winslow, the person about whom two-thirds of Orham joked and told stories, but the fact remained that she was disappointed.  And she was angry, not so much with him perhaps, as with herself.  Why had she been so foolish as to tell any one of their humiliation?

So when Jed appeared at the back door she received him rather coldly.  He was quite conscious of the change in temperature, but he made no comment and offered no explanation.  Instead he told his story, the story of his interview with Captain Hunniwell.  As he told it her face showed at first interest, then hope, and at the last radiant excitement.  She clasped her hands and leaned toward him, her eyes shining.

“Oh, Mr. Winslow,” she cried, breathlessly, “do you mean it?  Do you really believe Captain Hunniwell will give my brother a position in his bank?”

Jed nodded slowly.  “Yes,” he said, “I think likely he might.  Course ’twouldn’t be any great of a place, not at first—­nor ever, I cal’late, so far as that goes.  ’Tain’t a very big bank and wages ain’t—­”

But she interrupted.  “But that doesn’t make any difference,” she cried.  “Don’t you see it doesn’t!  The salary and all that won’t count—­now.  It will be a start for Charles, an opportunity for him to feel that he is a man again, doing a man’s work, an honest man’s work.  And he will be here where I can be with him, where we can be together, where it won’t be so hard for us to be poor and where there will be no one who knows us, who knows our story.  Oh, Mr. Winslow, is it really true?  If it is, how—­how can we ever thank you?  How can I ever show you how grateful I feel?”