“Sartin they could, but the fact of their movin’ is what makes me pretty sure the widow’s investments had turned sour.  It’s a plaguey sight easier to begin to cut down and live economical in a place where nobody knows you than ’tis in one where everybody has known you for years.  See that, don’t you?”

Jed whistled sadly, breaking off in the middle of a bar to reply that he didn’t know as he did.

“I’ve never cut up, so cuttin’ down don’t worry me much,” he observed.  “But I presume likely you’re right, Sam; you generally are.”  He whistled a moment longer, his gaze apparently fixed upon a point in the middle of the white plastered ceiling.  Then he said, dreamily:  “Well, anyhow, ’twon’t be but a month.  They’ll go somewheres else in a month.”

Captain Sam sniffed.  “Bet you a dollar they won’t,” he retorted.  “Not unless you turn ’em out.  And I see you turnin’ anybody out.”

But Mr. Winslow looked hopeful.  “They’ll go when the month’s up,” he reiterated.  “Nobody could stand me more than a month.  Mother used to say so, and she’d known me longer than anybody.”

And so, in this curious fashion, did tenants come to the old Winslow house.  They moved in on the following Monday.  Jed saw the wagon with the trunks backing up to the door and he sighed.  Then he went over to help carry the trunks into the house.

For the first week he found the situation rather uncomfortable; not as uncomfortable as he had feared, but a trifle embarrassing, nevertheless.  His new neighbors were not too neighborly; they did not do what he would have termed “pester” him by running in and out of the shop at all hours, nor did they continually ask favors.  On the other hand they did not, like his former tenants, the Davidsons, treat him as if he were some sort of odd wooden image, like one of his own weather vanes, a creature without feelings, to be displayed and “shown off” when it pleased them and ignored when it did not.  Mrs. Armstrong was always quietly cheerful and friendly when they met in the yard or about the premises, but she neither intruded nor patronized.  Jed’s first impression of her, a favorable one, was strengthened daily.

“I like her first-rate,” he told Captain Sam.  “She ain’t too folksy and she ain’t too standoffish.  Why, honest truth, Sam,” he added, ingenuously, “she treats me just the same as if I was like the common run of folks.”

The captain snorted.  “Gracious king!  Do stop runnin’ yourself down,” he commanded.  “Suppose you are a little mite—­er—­different from the—­well, from the heft of mackerel in the keg, what of it?  That’s your own private business, ain’t it?”

Jed’s lip twitched.  “I suppose ’tis,” he drawled.  “If it wan’t there wouldn’t be so many folks interested in it.”

At first he missed the freedom to which he had accustomed himself during his years of solitude, the liberty of preparing for bed with the doors and windows toward the sea wide open and the shades not drawn; of strolling out to the well at unearthly hours of the early morning singing at the top of his lungs; of washing face and hands in a tin basin on a bench by that well curb instead of within doors.  There were some necessary concessions to convention to which his attention was called by Captain Hunniwell, who took it upon himself to act as a sort of social mentor.