Mrs. Armstrong smiled slightly, but hers was a forced smile.  What she had just heard, told in her guest’s quaint language as a statement of fact and so obviously with no thought of effect, had touched her more than any plea for sympathy could have done.  She felt as if she had a glimpse into this man’s simple, trusting, sensitive soul.  And with that glimpse came a new feeling toward him, a feeling of pity—­yes, and more than that, a feeling of genuine respect.

He sighed again and rose to go.  “I declare,” he said, apologetically, “I don’t know what I’ve been botherin’ you with all this for.  As I said, I’ve never told that yarn to anybody afore and I never meant to tell it.  I—­”

But she interrupted him.  “Please don’t apologize,” she said.  “I’m very glad you told it to me.”

“I cal’late you think it’s a queer reason for lettin’ this house stand empty all this time.”

“No, I think it was a very good one, and Babbie and I are honored to know that your estimate of us is sufficiently high to overcome your prejudice.”

“Well, ma’am, I—­I guess it’s goin’ to be all right.  If you feel you can get along with me for a landlord I’d ought sartin to be willin’ to have you for tenants.  Course I don’t blame the Davidsons, in one way, you understand, but—­”

“I do.  I blame them in every way.  They must have been unspeakable.  Mr. Winslow, I hope you will consider Babbie and me not merely tenants and neighbors, but friends—­real friends.”

Jed did not reply for at least a minute.  Then he said:  “I’m afraid you’ll be kind of lonesome; my friends are like corn sprouts in a henyard, few and scatterin’.”

“So much the better; we shall feel that we belong to select company.”

He did not thank her nor answer, but walked slowly on through the dining-room and kitchen, where he opened the door and stepped out upon the grass.  There he stood for a moment, gazing at the sky, alternately puckering his lips and opening them, but without saying a word.  Mrs. Armstrong and Barbara, who had followed him, watched these facial gymnastics, the lady with astonishment, her daughter with expectant interest.

“I know what he is doing that for, Mamma,” she whispered.  “It’s because he’s thinking and don’t know whether to whistle or not.  When he thinks awful hard he’s almost sure to whistle—­or sing.”

“Hush, hush, Babbie!”

“Oh, he won’t hear us.  He hardly ever hears any one when he’s thinking like that.  And see, Mamma, he is going to whistle.”

Sure enough, their guest whistled a few mournful bars, breaking off suddenly to observe: 

“I hope there wan’t any bones in it.”

“Bones in what?  What do you mean, Mr. Winslow?” queried Mrs. Armstrong, who was puzzled, to say the least.

“Eh?  Oh, I hope there wan’t any bones in that mackerel Heman’s cat got away with.  If there was it might choke or somethin’.”