CHAPTER XII

Before the end of another week Charles Phillips came to Orham.  It was Ruth who told Jed the news.  She came into the windmill shop and, standing beside the bench where he was at work, she said:  “Mr. Winslow, I have something to tell you.”

Jed put down the pencil and sheet of paper upon which he had been drawing new patterns for the “gull vane” which was to move its wings when the wind blew.  This great invention had not progressed very far toward practical perfection.  Its inventor had been busy with other things and had of late rather lost interest in it.  But Barbara’s interest had not flagged and to please her Jed had promised to think a little more about it during the next day or so.

“But can’t you make it flap its wings, Uncle Jed?” the child had asked.

Jed rubbed his chin.  “W-e-e-ll,” he drawled, “I don’t know.  I thought I could, but now I ain’t so sure.  I could make ’em whirl ’round and ’round like a mill or a set of sailor paddles, but to make ’em flap is different.  They’ve got to be put on strong enough so they won’t flop off.  You see,” he added, solemnly, “if they kept floppin’ off they wouldn’t keep flappin’ on.  There’s all the difference in the world between a flap and flop.”

He was trying to reconcile that difference when Ruth entered the shop.  He looked up at her absently.  “Mr. Winslow,” she began again, “I—­”

His reproachful look made her pause and smile slightly in spite of herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “Well, then—­Jed—­I have something to tell you.  My brother will be here to-morrow.”

Jed had been expecting to hear this very thing almost any day, but he was a little startled nevertheless.

“Sho!” he exclaimed.  “You don’t tell me!”

“Yes.  He is coming on the evening train to-morrow.  I had word from him this morning.”

Jed’s hand moved to his chin.  “Hum . . .” he mused.  “I guess likely you’ll be pretty glad to see him.”

“I shall be at least that,” with a little break in her voice.  “You can imagine what his coming will mean to me.  No, I suppose you can’t imagine it; no one can.”

Jed did not say whether he imagined it or not.

“I—­I’m real glad for you, Mrs. Ruth,” he declared.  “Mrs. Ruth” was as near as he ever came to fulfilling their agreement concerning names.

“I’m sure you are.  And for my brother’s sake and my own I am very grateful to you.  Mr. Winslow—­Jed, I mean—­you have done so much for us already; will you do one thing more?”

Jed’s answer was given with no trace of his customary hesitation.  “Yes,” he said.

“This is really for me, perhaps, more than for Charles—­or at least as much.”

Again there was no hesitation in the Winslow reply.

“That won’t make it any harder,” he observed, gravely.