“Of course, Jackson a’n’t long for this world.  Anybody but him and his mother could see that; and now he’s just melting away, as you might say.  I ha’n’t liked his not carin’ to work plantchette since he got back; looked to me from the start that he kind of knowed that it wa’n’t worth while for him to trouble about a world that he’ll know all about so soon, anyways; and d’ you notice he don’t seem to care about Mars, either?  I’ve tried to wake him up on it two-three times, but you can’t git him to take an interest.  I guess Jeff can’t git here any too soon on Jackson’s account; but as far forth as I go, he couldn’t git here too late.  I should like to take the top of his head off.”

Westover had been in Whitwell’s confidence since their first chance of speech together.  He now said: 

“I know it will be rather painful to you to have him here for some reasons, but—­”

“You mean Cynthy?  Well!  I guess when Cynthy can’t get along with the sight of Jeff Durgin, she’ll be a different girl from what she’s ever been before.  If she’s got to see that skunk ag’in, I guess this is about the best time to do it.”

It was Westover who drove to meet Jeff at the station, when he got his despatch, naming the train he would take, and he found him looking very well, and perhaps stouter than he had been.

They left the station in silence, after their greeting and Jeff’s inquiries about Jackson.  Jeff had taken the reins, and now he put them with the whip in one hand, and pushed up his hat with the other, and turned his face full upon Westover.  “Notice anything in particular?” he demanded.

“No; yes—­some slight marks.”

“I guess that fellow fixed me up pretty well:  paints black eyes, and that kind of thing.  I got to scrapping with a man, Class Day; we wanted to settle a little business we began at the Tree, and he left his marks on me.  I meant to tell you the truth as soon as I could get at you; but I had to say erysipelas in my letter.  I guess, if you don’t mind, we’ll let erysipelas stand, with the rest.”

“I shouldn’t have cared,” Westover said, “if you’d let it stand with me.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jeff returned.

There could have been no show of affection at his meeting with Jackson even if there had been any fact of it; that was not the law of their life.  But Jeff had always been a turbulent, rebellious, younger brother, resentful of Jackson’s control, too much his junior to have the associations of an equal companionship in the past, and yet too near him in age to have anything like a filial regard for him.  They shook hands, and each asked the other how he was, and then they seemed to have done with each other.  Jeff’s mother kissed him in addition to the handshaking, but made him feel her preoccupation with Jackson; she asked him if he had hurried home on Jackson’s account, and he promptly lied her out of this anxiety.

He shook hands with Cynthia, too, but it was across the barrier which had not been lowered between them since they parted.  He spoke to Jackson about her, the day after he came home, when Jackson said he was feeling unusually strong and well, and the two brothers had strolled out through the orchard together.  Now and then he gave the sick man his arm, and when he wanted to sit down in a sunny place he spread the shawl he carried for him.