“You feel that that part of the situation ain’t what you’d call hopeless, eh? . . .  Um. . . .  Well, judgin’ from what I’ve heard, I shouldn’t call it that, either.  Would it surprise you to know, Charlie, that her dad and I had a little talk on this very subject not so very long ago?”

Evidently it did surprise him.  Charles gasped and turned red.

“Captain Hunniwell!” he exclaimed.  “Did Captain Hunniwell talk with you about—­about Maud and—­and me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, by George!  Then he suspected—­he guessed that—­ That’s strange.”

Jed relinquished the grip of one hand upon his knee long enough to stroke his chin.

“Um . . . yes,” he drawled drily.  “It’s worse than strange, it’s—­ er—­paralyzin’.  More clairvoyants in Orham than you thought there was; eh, Charlie?”

“But why should he talk with you on that subject; about anything so—­er—­personal and confidential as that?  With you, you know!”

Jed’s slow smile drifted into sight and vanished again.  He permitted himself the luxury of a retort.

“Well,” he observed musingly, “as to that I can’t say for certain.  Maybe he did it for the same reason you’re doin’ it now, Charlie.”

The young man evidently had not thought of it in just that light.  He looked surprised and still more puzzled.

“Why, yes,” he admitted.  “So I am, of course.  And I do talk to you about things I never would think of mentioning to other people.  And Ruth says she does.  That’s queer, too.  But we are—­er—­ neighbors of yours and—­and tenants, you know.  We’ve known you ever since we came to Orham.”

“Ye-es.  And Sam’s known me ever since I came.  Anyhow he talked with me about you and Maud.  I don’t think I shall be sayin’ more’n I ought to if I tell you that he likes you, Charlie.”

“Does he?” eagerly.  “By George, I’m glad of that!  But, oh, well,” with a sigh, “he doesn’t know.  If he did know my record he might not like me so well.  And as for my marrying his daughter—­good night!” with hopeless emphasis.

“No, not good night by any means.  Maybe it’s only good mornin’.  Go on and tell me what you mean by bein’ at a crisis, as you said a minute ago.”

“I mean just that.  The time has come when I must speak to Maud.  I must find out if—­find out how she feels about me.  And I can’t speak to her, honorably, without telling her everything.  And suppose she should care enough for me to—­to—­suppose she should care in spite of everything, there’s her father.  She is his only daughter; he worships the ground she steps on.  Suppose I tell him I’ve been,” bitterly, “a crook and a jailbird; what will he think of me—­as a son-in-law?  And now suppose he was fool enough to consent—­which isn’t supposable—­how could I stay here, working for him, sponging a living from him, with this thing hanging over us all?  No, I can’t—­I can’t.  Whatever else happens I can’t do that.  And I can’t go on as I am—­or I won’t.  Now what am I going to do?”