“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing; I—­I was just thinking of you in a uniform, that’s all.”

Jed smiled his slow, fleeting smile.

“I guess likely I would be pretty funny,” he admitted.  “Any Germans I met would probably die laughin’ and that might help along some.”

But after Miss Hunniwell had gone he sat for some minutes gazing out of the window, the wistful, dreamy look on his lean, homely face.  Then he sighed, and resumed his painting.

That afternoon, about half past five, he was still at his task when, hearing the doorbell ring, he rose and went into the front shop.  To his astonishment the shop was empty.  He looked about for the expected customer or caller, whoever he or she might be, and saw no one.  He stepped to the window and looked out, but there was no one on the steps or in the yard.  He made up his mind that he must have dreamed of the bell-ringing and was turning back to the inner room, when a voice said: 

“Please, are you the windmill man?”

Jed started, turned again, and stared about him.

“Please, sir, here I am,” said the voice.

Jed, looking down, instead of up or on a level, saw his visitor then.  That is, he saw a tumbled shock of curls and a pair of big round eyes looking up at him over a stock of weather vanes.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, in surprise.

The curls and eyes came out from behind the stack of vanes.  They were parts of a little girl, and the little girl made him a demure little courtesy.

“How do you do?” she said.

Jed regarded her in silence for a moment.  Then, “Why, I’m fair to middlin’ smart just at present,” he drawled.  “How do you find yourself to-day?”

The young lady’s answer was prompt and to the point.  “I’m nicely, thank you,” she replied, and added:  “I was sick at my stomach yesterday, though.”

This bit of personal information being quite unexpected, Mr. Winslow scarcely knew what comment to make in reply to it.

“Sho!” he exclaimed.  “Was you, though?”

“Yes.  Mamma says she is ’clined to think it was the two whole bananas and the choc’late creams, but I think it was the fried potatoes.  I was sick twice—­no, three times.  Please, I asked you something.  Are you the windmill man?”

Jed, by this time very much amused, looked her over once more.  She was a pretty little thing, although just at this time it is doubtful if any of her family or those closely associated with her would have admitted it.  Her face was not too clean, her frock was soiled and mussed, her curls had been blown into a tangle and there were smooches, Jed guessed them to be blackberry stains, on her hands, around her mouth and even across her small nose.  She had a doll, its raiment in about the same condition as her own, tucked under one arm.  Hat she had none.

Mr. Winslow inspected her in his accustomed deliberate fashion.