“Uncle Jed,” she said, “this is my Uncle Charlie.  He’s been away and he’s come back and he’s going to work here always and live in the bank.  No, I mean he’s going to work in the bank always and live—­ No, I don’t, but you know what I do mean, don’t you, Uncle Jed?”

Charles Phillips smiled.  “If he does he must be a mind-reader, Babbie,” he said.  Then, extending his hand, he added:  “Glad to know you, Mr. Winslow.  I’ve heard a lot about you from Babbie and Sis.”

Jed might have replied that he had heard a lot about him also, but he did not.  Instead he said “How d’ye do,” shook the proffered hand, and looked the speaker over.  What he saw impressed him favorably.  Phillips was a good-looking young fellow, with a pleasant smile, a taking manner and a pair of dark eyes which reminded Mr. Winslow of his sister’s.  It was easy to believe Ruth’s statement that he had been a popular favorite among their acquaintances in Middleford; he was the sort the average person would like at once, the sort which men become interested in and women spoil.

He was rather quiet during this first call.  Babbie did two-thirds of the talking.  She felt it her duty as an older inhabitant to display “Uncle Jed” and his creations for her relative’s benefit.  Vanes, sailors, ships and mills were pointed out and commented upon.

“He makes every one, Uncle Charlie,” she declared solemnly.  “He’s made every one that’s here and—­oh, lots and lots more.  He made the big mill that’s up in our garret—­ You haven’t seen it yet, Uncle Charlie; it’s going to be out on our lawn next spring—­and he gave it to me for a—­for a—­ What kind of a present was that mill you gave me, Uncle Jed, that time when Mamma and Petunia and I were going back to Mrs. Smalley’s because we thought you didn’t want us to have the house any longer?”

Jed looked puzzled.

“Eh?” he queried.  “What kind of a present?  I don’t know’s I understand what you mean.”

“I mean what kind of a present was it.  It wasn’t a Christmas present or a birthday present or anything like that, but it must be some kind of one.  What kind of present would you call it, Uncle Jed?”

Jed rubbed his chin.

“W-e-e-ll,” he drawled, “I guess likely you might call it a forget-me-not present, if you had to call it anything.”

Barbara pondered.

“A—­a forget-me-not is a kind of flower, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Um-hm.”

“But this is a windmill.  How can you make a flower out of a windmill, Uncle Jed?”

Jed rubbed his chin.  “Well, that’s a question,” he admitted.  “But you can make flour in a windmill, ’cause I’ve seen it done.”

More pondering on the young lady’s part.  Then she gave it up.

“You mustn’t mind if you don’t understand him, Uncle Charlie,” she said, in her most confidential and grown-up manner.  “He says lots of things Petunia and I don’t understand at all, but he’s awful nice, just the same.  Mamma says he’s choking—­no, I mean joking when he talks that way and that we’ll understand the jokes lots better when we’re older.  She understands them almost always,” she added proudly.