A tremendous gust, driven in from the sea, tore the sweater from the Winslow head and shoulders and wrapped it lovingly about one of the posts in the yard.  Jed did not offer to recover it; he scarcely seemed to know that it was gone.  Instead he stood staring at the express driver, while the rain ran down his nose and dripped from its tip to his chin.

“She—­she’s goin’ back to Luretta Smalley’s?” he repeated.  “She—­”

He did not finish the sentence.  Instead he turned on his heel and walked slowly back to the shop.  The sweater, wrapped about the post where, in summer, a wooden sailor brandished his paddles, flapped soggily in the wind.  Hardy gazed after him.

“What in time—?” he exclaimed.  Then, raising his voice, he called:  “Hi, Jed!  Jed!  You crazy critter!  What—­Jed, hold on a minute, didn’t you know she was goin’?  Didn’t she tell you?  Jed!”

But Jed had entered the shop and closed the door.  Philander drove off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

A few minutes later Mrs. Armstrong, hearing a knock at the rear door of the Winslow house, opened it to find her landlord standing on the threshold.  He was bareheaded and he had no umbrella.

“Why, Mr. Winslow!” she exclaimed.  It was the first time that he had come to that house of his own accord since she had occupied it.  Now he stood there, in the rain, looking at her without speaking.

“Why, Mr. Winslow,” she said again.  “What is it?  Come in, won’t you?  You’re soaking wet.  Come in!”

Jed looked down at the sleeves of his jacket.  “Eh?” he drawled, slowly.  “Wet?  Why, I don’t know’s I ain’t—­a little.  It’s—­it’s rainin’.”

“Raining!  It’s pouring.  Come in.”

She took him by the arm and led him through the woodshed and into the kitchen.  She would have led him further, into the sitting-room, but he hung back.

“No, ma’am, no,” he said.  “I—­I guess I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”

There was a patter of feet from the sitting-room and Barbara came running, Petunia in her arms.  At the sight of their visitor’s lanky form the child’s face brightened.

“Oh, Mr. Winslow!” she cried.  “Did you come to see where Petunia and I were?  Did you?”

Jed looked down at her.  “Why—­why, I don’t know’s I didn’t,” he admitted.  “I—­I kind of missed you, I guess.”

“Yes, and we missed you.  You see, Mamma said we mustn’t go to the shop to-day because—­ Oh, Mamma, perhaps he has come to tell you we won’t have to—­”

Mrs. Armstrong interrupted.  “Hush, Babbie,” she said, quickly.  “I told Barbara not to go to visit you to-day, Mr. Winslow.  She has been helping me with the packing.”

Jed swallowed hard.  “Packin’?” he repeated.  “You’ve been packin’?  Then ‘twas true, what Philander Hardy said about your goin’ back to Luretta’s?”

The lady nodded.  “Yes,” she replied.  “Our month here ends to-day.  Of course you knew that.”