“Yes—­er—­yes, ma’am,” he faltered.  “Well, I—­I was kind of ’fraid ’twas, but Colonel Davidson seemed to think ’twas about fair, so—­”

“Oh, you misunderstand me.  I didn’t mean that forty dollars was too high a rent.  It isn’t, it is a very low one.  I meant that it was more than I ought to think of paying.  You see, Mr. Winslow, I have been thinking that we might live here in Orham, Barbara and I. I like the town; and the people, most of those I have met, have been very pleasant and kind.  And it is necessary—­that is, it seems to me preferable—­that we live, for some years at least, away from the city.  This little house of yours is perfect.  I fell in love with the outside of it at first sight.  Now I find the inside even more delightful.  I”—­she hesitated, and then added—­“I don’t suppose you would care to let it unfurnished at—­at a lower rate?”

Jed was very much embarrassed.  The idea that his caller would make such a proposition as this had not occurred to him for a moment.  If it had the lost key would almost certainly have remained lost.  He liked Mrs. Armstrong even on such short acquaintance, and he had taken a real fancy to Barbara; but his prejudice against tenants remained.  He rubbed his chin.

“Why—­why, now, ma’am,” he stammered, “you—­you wouldn’t like livin’ in Orham all the year ’round, would you?”

“I hope I should.  I know I should like it better than living—­ elsewhere,” with, so it seemed to him, a little shudder.  “And I cannot afford to live otherwise than very simply anywhere.  I have been boarding in Orham for almost three months now and I feel that I have given it a trial.”

“Yes—­yes, ma’am, but summer’s considerable more lively than winter here on the Cape.”

“I have no desire for society.  I expect to be quiet and I wish to be.  Mr. Winslow, would you consider letting me occupy this house—­ unfurnished, of course?  I should dearly love to take it just as it is—­this furniture is far more fitting for it than mine—­but I cannot afford forty dollars a month.  Provided you were willing to let me hire the house of you at all, not for the summer alone but for all the year, what rent do you think you should charge?”

Jed’s embarrassment increased.  “Well, now, ma’am,” he faltered, “I—­I hope you won’t mind my sayin’ it, but—­but I don’t know’s I want to let this house at all.  I—­I’ve had consider’ble many chances to rent it, but—­but—­”

He could not seem to find a satisfactory ending to the sentence and so left it unfinished.  Mrs. Armstrong was evidently much disappointed, but she did not give up completely.

“I see,” she said.  “Well, in a way I think I understand.  You prefer the privacy.  I think I could promise you that Barbara and I would disturb you very little.  As to the rent, that would be paid promptly.”

“Sartin, ma’am, sartin; I know ’twould, but—­”

“Won’t you think it over?  We might even live here for a month, with your furniture undisturbed and at the regular rental.  You could call it a trial month, if you liked.  You could see how you liked us, you know.  At the end of that time,” with a smile, “you might tell us we wouldn’t do at all, or, perhaps, then you might consider making a more permanent arrangement.  Barbara would like it here, wouldn’t you, dear?”