“Now,” he said, “I cal’late I’d better be gettin’ to work, hadn’t I?  What’ll I do first, Thankful?”

Mrs. Barnes stared at him.  “Work?” she repeated.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to be doin’ somethin’—­somethin’ to help, you know.  I don’t cal’late to stay around here and loaf.  No, sir!”

Thankful drew a long breath.  “All right, Jed,” she said.  “You can go out in the barn and feed the horse if you want to.  Kenelm—­Mr. Parker—­generally does it, but he probably won’t be here for quite a spell yet.  Go ahead.  Imogene’ll show you what to do. . . .  But, say, hold on,” she added, with emphasis.  “Don’t you go off the premises, and if you see anybody comin’, keep out of sight.  I don’t want anybody to see a brother of mine in those clothes.  Soon’s ever I can I’ll go up to the village and buy you somethin’ to wear, if it’s only an ’ilskin jacket and a pair of overalls.  They’ll cover up the rags, anyhow.  As you are now, you look like one of Georgie’s picture-puzzles partly put together.”

When the eager applicant for employment had gone, under Imogene’s guidance, Emily spoke her mind.

“Auntie,” she said, “are you going to make him work—­now; after what he’s been through, and on Christmas day, too?”

Thankful was still staring after her brother.

“Sshh! sshh!” she commanded.  “Don’t speak to me for a minute; you may wake me up.  Jedediah Cahoon askin’ to go to work!  All the miracles in Scriptur’ are nothin’ to this.”

“But, Auntie, he did ask.  And do you think he is strong enough?”

“Hush, Emily, hush!  You don’t know Jedediah.  Strong enough!  I’m the one that needs strength, if I’m goin’ to have shocks like this one sprung on me.”

Emily said no more, but she noticed that her cousin was wearing the two-dollar ring, the wanderer’s “farewell” gift, so she judged that brother Jed would not be worked beyond the bounds of moderation.

Left alone in the dining-room—­Georgie had returned to the living-room and his presents—­the two women looked at each other.  Neither had eaten a breakfast worth mentioning and the same thought was in the mind of each.

“Auntie,” whispered Emily, voicing that thought, “don’t you think we ought to go up and—­and see if he is—­all right.”

Thankful nodded.  “Yes,” she said, “I suppose we had.  He’s alive, I know that much, for I had Imogene knock on his door just now and he answered.  But I guess maybe we’d better—­”

She did not finish the sentence for at that moment the subject of the conversation entered the room.  It was Solomon Cobb who entered, but, except for his clothes, he was a changed man.  His truculent arrogance was gone, he came in slowly and almost as if he were walking in his sleep.  His collar was unbuttoned, his hair had not been combed, and the face between the thin bunches of whiskers was white and drawn.  He did not speak to either Emily or Thankful, but, dragging one foot after the other, crossed the room and sat down in a chair by the window.