“Why, no, it was your property to do what you pleased with, and I am sure you had a reason for refusing.”

“Yes’m.  But I ain’t ever told anybody what that reason was.  I’ve told Sam a reason, but ’twan’t the real one.  I—­I guess likely I’ll tell it to you.  I imagine ’twill sound foolish enough.  ’Twas just somethin’ I heard Colonel Davidson say, that’s all.”

He paused.  Mrs. Armstrong did not speak.  After an interval he continued: 

“’Twas one day along the last of the season.  The Davidsons had company and they’d been in to see the shop and the mills and vanes and one thing or ’nother.  They seemed nice, pleasant enough folks; laughed a good deal, but I didn’t mind that.  I walked out into the yard along with ’em and then, after I left ’em, I stood for a minute on the front step of the shop, with the open door between me and this house here.  A minute or so later I heard ’em come into this very room.  They couldn’t see me, ’count of the door, but I could hear them, ‘count of the windows bein’ open.  And then . . .  Huh . . .  Oh, well.”

He sighed and lapsed into one of his long fits of abstraction.  At length Mrs. Armstrong ventured to remind him.

“And then—?” she asked.

“Eh?  Oh, yes, ma’am!  Well, then I heard one of the comp’ny say:  ‘I don’t wonder you enjoy it here, Ed,’ he says.  ’That landlord of yours is worth all the rent you pay and more.  ’Tain’t everybody that has a dime museum right on the premises.’  All hands laughed and then Colonel Davidson said:  ‘I thought you’d appreciate him,’ he says.  ’We’ll have another session with him before you leave.  Perhaps we can get him into the house here this evenin’.  My wife is pretty good at that, she jollies him along.  Oh, he swallows it all; the poor simpleton don’t know when he’s bein’ shown off.’”

Mrs. Armstrong uttered an exclamation.

“Oh!” she cried.  “The brute!”

“Yes’m,” said Jed, quietly, “that was what he said.  You see,” with an apologetic twitch of the lip, “it came kind of sudden to me and—­ and it hurt.  Fact is, I—­I had noticed he and his wife was—­er—­ well, nice and—­er—­folksy, as you might say, but I never once thought they did it for any reason but just because they—­well, liked me, maybe.  Course I’d ought to have known better.  Fine ladies and gentlemen like them don’t take much fancy to dime museum folks.”

There was just a trace of bitterness in his tone, the first Mrs. Armstrong had ever noticed there.  Involuntarily she leaned toward him.

“Don’t, Mr. Winslow,” she begged.  “Don’t think of it again.  They must have been beasts, those people, and they don’t deserve a moment’s thought.  And don’t call them ladies and gentlemen.  The only gentleman there was yourself.”

Jed shook his head.

“If you said that around the village here,” he drawled, “somebody might be for havin’ you sent to the asylum up to Taunton.  Course I’m much obliged to you, but, honest, you hadn’t ought to take the risk.”