She laughed merrily.  “You are a very poor pretender, Jed,” she declared.  “Confess, you haven’t the least idea what opinion I mean.”

“Well—­well, to be right down honest, I—­I don’t know’s I have, Mrs. Ruth.”

“Of course, you haven’t.  There isn’t any opinion.  You have been sitting there for the last five minutes, staring straight at me and picking that paint brush to pieces.  I doubt if you even knew I was here.”

“Eh?  Oh, yes, I know that, I know that all right.  Tut! tut!” inspecting the damaged brush.  “That’s a nice mess, ain’t it?  Now what do you suppose I did that for?  I’m scared to death, when I have one of those go-to-sleeptic fits, that I’ll pick my head to pieces.  Not that that would be as big a loss as a good paint brush,” he added, reflectively.

His visitor smiled.  “I think it would,” she said.  “Neither Babbie nor I could afford to lose that head; it and its owner have been too thoughtful and kind.  But tell me, what were you thinking about just then?”

The question appeared to embarrass Mr. Winslow a good deal.  He colored, fidgeted and stammered.  “Nothin’, nothin’ of any account,” he faltered.  “My—­er—­my brain was takin’ a walk around my attic, I cal’late.  There’s plenty of room up there for a tramp.”

“No, tell me; I want to know.”  Her expression changed and she added:  “You weren’t thinking of—­of Charles’—­his trouble at Middleford?  You don’t still think me wrong in not telling Captain Hunniwell?”

“Eh? . . .  Oh, no, no.  I wasn’t thinkin’ that at all.”

“But you don’t answer my question.  Well, never mind.  I am really almost happy for the first time in ever so long and I mean to remain so if I can.  I am glad I did not tell—­glad.  And you must agree with me, Mr. Winslow—­Jed, I mean—­or I shall not run in so often to talk in this confidential way.”

“Eh?  Not run in?  Godfreys, Mrs. Ruth, don’t talk so!  Excuse my strong language, but you scared me, talkin’ about not runnin’ in.”

“You deserve to be scared, just a little, for criticizing me in your thoughts.  Oh, don’t think me frivolous,” she pleaded, with another swift change.  “I realize it was all wrong.  And some time, by and by, after Charles has firmly established himself, after they really know him, I shall go to the bank people, or he will go to them, and tell the whole story.  By that time I’m sure—­I’m sure they will forgive us both.  Don’t you think so?”

Jed would have forgiven her anything.  He nodded.

“Sartin sure they will,” he said.  Then, asking a question that had been in his thoughts for some time, he said:  “How does your brother feel about it himself, Mrs. Ruth?”