Jed sighed.  “That’s the trouble with me,” he observed.  “I never know enough to pick out the right things—­or folks—­to be careful with.  If I set out to be real toady and humble to what I think is a peacock it generally turns out to be a Shanghai rooster.  And the same when it’s t’other way about.  It’s a great gift to be able to tell the real—­er—­what is it?—­gold foxes from the woodchucks in this life.  I ain’t got it and that’s one of the two hundred thousand reasons why I ain’t rich.”

He began to hum one of his doleful melodies.  Maud laughed.

“Mercy, what a long sermon!” she exclaimed.  “No wonder you sing a hymn after it.”

Jed sniffed.  “Um . . . ye-es,” he drawled.  “If I was more worldly-minded I’d take up a collection, probably.  Well, how’s all the United States Army; the gold lace part of it, I mean?”

His visitor laughed again.  “Those that I know seem to be very well and happy,” she replied.

“Um . . . yes . . . sartin.  They’d be happy, naturally.  How could they help it, under the circumstances?”

He began picking over an assortment of small hardware, varying his musical accompaniment by whistling instead of singing.  His visitor looked at him rather oddly.

“Jed,” she observed, “you’re changed.”

Changed?  I ain’t changed my clothes, if that’s what you mean.  Course if I’d know I was goin’ to have bankers’ daughters with gold—­er—­muskrats ’round their necks come to see me I’d have dressed up.”

“Oh, I don’t mean your clothes.  I mean you—­yourself—­you’ve changed.”

“I’ve changed!  How, for mercy sakes?”

“Oh, lots of ways.  You pay the ladies compliments now.  You wouldn’t have done that a year ago.”

“Eh?  Pay compliments?  I’m afraid you’re mistaken.  Your pa says I’m so absent-minded and forgetful that I don’t pay some of my bills till the folks I owe ’em to make proclamations they’re goin’ to sue me; and other bills I pay two or three times over.”

“Don’t try to escape by dodging the subject.  You have changed in the last few months.  I think,” holding the tail of the silver fox before her face and regarding him over it, “I think you must be in love.”

“Eh?” Jed looked positively frightened.  “In love!”

“Yes.  You’re blushing now.”

“Now, now, Maud, that ain’t—­that’s sunburn.”

“No, it’s not sunburn.  Who is it, Jed?” mischievously.  “Is it the pretty widow?  Is it Mrs. Armstrong?”

A good handful of the hardware fell to the floor.  Jed thankfully scrambled down to pick it up.  Miss Hunniwell, expressing contrition at being indirectly responsible for the mishap, offered to help him.  He declined, of course, but in the little argument which followed the dangerous and embarrassing topic was forgotten.  It was not until she was about to leave the shop that Maud again mentioned the Armstrong name.  And then, oddly enough, it was she, not Mr. Winslow, who showed embarrassment.