“I think that’s a capital idea, Mrs. Durgin.”

“It’s that or go,” she said.  “There ain’t a livin’ for us on the farm any more, and we got to do somethin’.  If there was anything else I could do!  But I’ve thought it out and thought it out, and I guess there ain’t anything I can do but take boarders—­if I can get them.”

“I should think you’d find it rather pleasant on some accounts.  Your boarders would be company for you,” said Westover.

“We’re company enough for ourselves,” said Mrs. Durgin.  “I ain’t ever been lonesome here, from the first minute.  I guess I had company enough when I was a girl to last me the sort that hotel folks are.  I presume Mr. Whitwell spoke to you about my father?”

“Yes; he did, Mrs. Durgin.”

“I don’t presume he said anything that wa’n’t true.  It’s all right.  But I know how my mother used to slave, and how I used to slave myself; and I always said I’d rather do anything than wait on boarders; and now I guess I got to come to it.  The sight of summer folks makes me sick!  I guess I could ‘a’ had ’em long ago if I’d wanted to.  There!  I’ve said enough.”  She rose, with a sudden lift of her powerful frame, and stood a moment as if expecting Westover to say something.

He said:  “Well, when you’ve made your mind up, send your advertisement to me, and I’ll attend to it for you.”

“And you won’t forget about the picture?”

“No; I won’t forget that.”

The next morning he made ready for an early start, and in his preparations he had the zealous and even affectionate help of Jeff Durgin.  The boy seemed to wish him to carry away the best impression of him, or, at least, to make him forget all that had been sinister or unpleasant in his behavior.  They had been good comrades since the first evil day; they had become good friends even; and Westover was touched by the boy’s devotion at parting.  He helped the painter get his pack together in good shape, and he took pride in strapping it on Westover’s shoulders, adjusting and readjusting it with care, and fastening it so that all should be safe and snug.  He lingered about at the risk of being late for school, as if to see the last of the painter, and he waved his hat to him when Westover looked back at the house from half down the lane.  Then he vanished, and Westover went slowly on till he reached that corner of the orchard where the slanting gravestones of the family burial-ground showed above the low wall.  There, suddenly, a storm burst upon him.  The air rained apples, that struck him on the head, the back, the side, and pelted in violent succession on his knapsack and canvases, camp-stool and easel.  He seemed assailed by four or five skilful marksmen, whose missiles all told.

When he could lift his face to look round he heard a shrill, accusing voice, “Oh, Jeff Durgin!” and he saw another storm of apples fly through the air toward the little Whitwell girl, who dodged and ran along the road below and escaped in the direction of the schoolhouse.  Then the boy’s face showed itself over the top of one of the gravestones, all agrin with joy.  He waited and watched Westover keep slowly on, as if nothing had happened, and presently he let some apples fall from his hands and walked slowly back to the house, with his dog at his heels.