But she was back again in a few minutes, her eyes shining.

“Mr. Winslow,” she said, “Mamma sent me to ask if you could please come right over to our house.  She—­she wants to see you.”

Jed regarded her doubtfully.  “Wants to see me?” he repeated.  “What for?”

The child shook her head; her eyes sparkled more than ever.  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think there’s something she wants you to do.”

Wondering what the something might be, Jed promised to be over in a minute or two.  Barbara danced away, apparently much excited.  Mr. Winslow, remembering that it was Sunday, performed a hasty toilet at the sink, combed his hair, put on his coat and walked across the yard.  Barbara met him at the side door of the house.

“Mamma’s in the dining-room,” she said.  “Come right in, Mr. Winslow.”

So Jed entered the dining-room, to find the table set and ready, with places laid for three instead of two, and Mrs. Armstrong drawing back one of three chairs.  He looked at her.

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” he stammered.  “Babbie, she said—­er—­she said there was somethin’ you wanted me to do.”

The lady smiled.  “There is,” she replied.  “Babbie has told me what happened to your dinner, and she and I want you to sit right down and have dinner with us.  We’re expecting you, everything is ready, and we shall—­yes, we shall be hurt if you don’t stay.  Shan’t we, Babbie?”

Barbara nodded vigorously.  “Awf’ly,” she declared; “’specially Petunia.  You will stay, won’t you, Mr. Winslow—­please?”

Poor Jed!  His agitation was great, his embarrassment greater and his excuses for not accepting the invitation numerous if not convincing.  But at last he yielded and sat reluctantly down to the first meal he had eaten in that house for five years.

Mrs. Armstrong, realizing his embarrassment, did not urge him to talk and Barbara, although she chattered continuously, did not seem to expect answers to her questions.  So Jed ate a little, spoke a little, and thought a great deal.  And by the time dinner was over some of his shyness and awkwardness had worn away.  He insisted upon helping with the dishes and, because she saw that he would be hurt if she did not, his hostess permitted him to do so.

“You see, ma’am,” he said, “I’ve been doin’ dishes for a consider’ble spell, more years than I like to count.  I ought to be able to do ’em fair to middlin’ well.  But,” he added, as much to himself as to her, “I don’t know as that’s any sign.  There’s so many things I ought to be able to do like other folks—­and can’t.  I’m afraid you may not be satisfied, after all, ma’am,” he went on.  “I suppose you’re a kind of an expert, as you might say.”

She shook her head.  “I fear I’m no expert, Mr. Winslow,” she answered, just a little sadly, so it seemed to him.  “Barbara and I are learning, that is all.”

“Nora used to do the dishes at home,” put in Barbara.  “Mamma hardly ever—­”