“You see,” she said, “I—­I feel as if I were the only helper and—­ well—­guardian the poor boy has.  I can imagine,” smiling wanly, “how he would scorn the idea of his needing a guardian, but I feel as if it were my duty to be with him, to stand by him when every one else has deserted him.  Besides,” after an instant’s hesitation, “I feel—­I suppose it is unreasonable, but I feel as if I had neglected my duty before; as if perhaps I had not watched him as carefully as I should, or encouraged him to confide in me; I can’t help feeling that perhaps if I had been more careful in this way the dreadful thing might not have happened. . . .  Oh,” she added, turning away again, “I don’t know why I am telling all these things to you, I’m sure.  They can’t interest you much, and the telling isn’t likely to profit either of us greatly.  But I am so alone, and I have brooded over my troubles so much.  As I said I have felt as if I must talk with some one.  But there—­good morning, Mr. Winslow.”

“Just a minute, please, Mrs. Armstrong; just a minute.  Hasn’t your brother got any friends in Middleford who could help him get some work—­a job—­you know what I mean?  Seems as if he must have, or you must have.”

“Oh, we have, I suppose.  We had some good friends there, as well as others whom we thought were friends.  But—­but I think we both had rather die than go back there; I am sure I should.  Think what it would mean to both of us.”

Jed understood.  She might have been surprised to realize how clearly he understood.  She was proud, and it was plain to see that she had been very proud of her brother.  And Middleford had been her home where she and her husband had spent their few precious years together, where her child was born, where, after her brother came, she had watched his rise to success and the apparent assurance of a brilliant future.  She had begun to be happy once more.  Then came the crash, and shame and disgrace instead of pride and confidence.  Jed’s imagination, the imagination which was quite beyond the comprehension of those who called him the town crank, grasped it all—­or, at least, all its essentials.  He nodded slowly.

“I see,” he said.  “Yes, yes, I see. . . .  Hum.”

“Of course, any one must see.  And to go away, to some city or town where we are not known—­where could we go?  What should we live on?  And yet we can’t stay here; there is nothing for Charles to do.”

“Um. . . .  He was a—­what did you say his trade was?”

“He was a bond broker, a kind of banker.”

“Eh? . . .  A kind of banker. . . .  Sho!  Did he work in a bank?”

“Why, yes, I told you he did, in Wisconsin, where he and I used to live.”

“Hum. . . .  Pretty smart at it, too, seems to me you said he was?”

“Yes, very capable indeed.”

“I want to know. . . .  Hum. . . .  Sho!”

He muttered one or two more disjointed exclamations and then ceased to speak altogether, staring abstractedly at a crack in the floor.  All at once he began to hum a hymn.  Mrs. Armstrong, whose nerves were close to the breaking point, lost patience.