Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted and joy shone in her eager eyes.  Her voice broke a little as she uttered the words.  Jed looked at her and then quickly looked away.

“I—­I—­don’t talk so, Mrs. Armstrong,” he pleaded, hastily.  “It—­ it ain’t anything, it ain’t really.  It just—­”

“Not anything?  Not anything to find my brother the opportunity he and I have been praying for?  To give me the opportunity of having him with me?  Isn’t that anything?  It is everything.  Oh, Mr. Winslow, if you can do this for us—­”

“Shsh!  Sshh!  Now, Mrs. Armstrong, please.  You mustn’t say I’m doin’ it for you.  I’m the one that just happened to think of it, that’s all.  You could have done it just as well, if you’d thought of it.”

“Perhaps,” with a doubtful smile, “but I should never have thought of it.  You did because you were thinking for me—­for my brother and me.  And—­and I thought you didn’t care.”

“Eh? . . .  Didn’t care?”

“Yes.  When I left you at the shop this morning after our talk.  You were so—­so odd.  You didn’t speak, or offer to advise me as I had asked you to; you didn’t even say good-by.  You just sat there and let me go.  And I didn’t understand and—­”

Jed put up a hand.  His face was a picture of distress.

“Dear, dear, dear!” he exclaimed.  “Did I do that?  I don’t remember it, but of course I did if you say so.  Now what on earth possessed me to? . . .  Eh?” as the idea occurred to him.  “Tell me, was I singin’?”

“Why, yes, you were.  That is, you were—­were—­”

“Makin’ a noise as if I’d swallowed a hymn book and one of the tunes was chokin’ me to death?  Um-hm, that’s the way I sing.  And I was singin’ when you left me, eh?  That means I was thinkin’ about somethin’.  I told Babbie once, and it’s the truth, that thinkin’ was a big job with me and when I did it I had to drop everything else, come up into the wind like a schooner, you know, and just lay to and think. . . .  Oh, I remember now!  You said somethin’ about your brother’s workin’ in a bank and that set me thinkin’ that Sam must be needin’ somebody by this time in Lute Small’s place.”

“You didn’t know he needed any one?”

“No-o, not exactly; but I knew Lute, and that amounted to the same thing.  Mrs. Armstrong, I do hope you’ll forgive me for—­for singin’ and—­and all the rest of my foolish actions.”

“Forgive you!  Will you forgive me for misjudging you?”

“Land sakes, don’t talk that way.  But there’s one thing I haven’t said yet and you may not like it.  I guess you and your brother’ll have to go to Sam and tell him the whole story.”

Her expression changed.  “The whole story?” she repeated.  “Why, what do you mean?  Tell him that Charles has been in—­in prison?  You don’t mean that?”

“Um-hm,” gravely; “I’m afraid I do.  It looks to me as if it was the only way.”