“Do you always wash outdoors there?” asked the captain, after watching one set of ablutions.

“Why—­er—­yes, I ’most generally do in good weather.  It’s sort of—­ er—­well, sort of cool and roomy, as you might say.”

“Roomy, eh?  Gracious king!  Well, I should say you needed room.  You splash into that basin like a kedge anchor goin’ overboard and when you come out of it you puff like a grampus comin’ up to blow.  How do you cal’late Mrs. Armstrong enjoys seein’ you do that?”

Jed looked startled and much disturbed.  “Eh?” he exclaimed.  “Why, I never thought about her, Sam.  I declare I never did.  I—­I’ll fetch the wash basin inside this very minute.”

And he did.  The inconvenience attached to the breaking off of a summer-time habit of years troubled him not half as much as the fear that he might have offended a fellow creature’s sensibilities.  Jed Winslow was far too sensitive himself and his own feelings had been hurt too many times to make hurting those of another a small offense in his eyes.

But these were minor inconveniences attached to his new position as landlord.  There were recompenses.  At work in his shop he could see through the window the white-clad, graceful figure of Mrs. Armstrong moving about the yard, sitting with Barbara on the bench by the edge of the bluff, or writing a letter at a table she had taken out under the shadow of the silver-leaf tree.  Gradually Jed came to enjoy seeing her there, to see the windows of the old house open, to hear voices once more on that side of the shop, and to catch glimpses of Babbie dancing in and out over the shining mica slab at the door.

He liked the child when he first met her, but he had been a little fearful that, as a neighbor, she might trouble him by running in and out of the shop, interfering with his privacy and his work or making a small nuisance of herself when he was waiting on customers.  But she did none of these things, in fact she did not come into the shop at all and, after the first week had passed, he began to wonder why.  Late that afternoon, seeing her sitting on the bench by the bluff edge, her doll in her arms, he came out of the door of his little kitchen at the back of the shop and called her.

“Good evenin’,” he hailed.  “Takin’ in the view, was you?”

She bobbed her head.  “Yes, sir,” she called in reply; “Petunia and I were looking at it.”

“Sho!  Well, what do you and-er—­What’s-her-name think of it?”

Barbara pondered.  “We think it’s very nice,” she announced, after a moment.  “Don’t you like it, Mr. Winslow?”

“Eh?  Oh, yes, I like it, I guess.  I ain’t really had time to look at it to-day; been too busy.”

The child nodded, sympathetically.  “That’s too bad,” she said.  Jed had, for him, a curious impulse, and acted upon it.

“Maybe I might come and look at it now, if I was asked,” he suggested.  “Plenty of room on that bench, is there?”