“All right, Mr. Whitwell,” said Jeff, with respectful gravity; “I was afraid of it.”

Westover made a motion to rise, but Whitwell laid a detaining hand upon his knee.  “There ain’t anything so private about it, so far as I know.”

“Don’t go, Mr. Westover,” said Jeff, and Westover remained.

“We a’n’t a-goin’ to leave you in the lurch, and we want you should take your time, especially Mis’ Durgin.  But the sooner the better.  Heigh?”

“Yes, I understand that, Mr. Whitwell; I guess mother will miss you, but if you must go, you must.”  The two men remained silent a moment, and then Jeff broke out passionately, rising and flinging his cigar away:  “I wish I could go, instead!  That would be the right way, and I guess mother would like it full as well.  Do you see any way to manage it?” He put his foot up in his chair, and dropped his elbow on his knee, with his chin propped in his hand.  Westover could see that he meant what he was saying.  “If there was any way, I’d do it.  I know what you think of me, and I should be just like you, in your place.  I don’t feel right to turn you out here, I don’t, Mr. Whitwell, and yet if I stay, I’ve got to do it.  What’s the reason I can’t go?”

“You can’t,” said Whitwell, “and that’s all about it.  We shouldn’t let you, if you could.  But I a’n’t surprised you feel the way you do,” he added, unsparingly.  “As you say, I should feel just so myself if I was in your place.  Well, goodnight, Mr. Westover.”

Whitwell turned and slouched down the hill, leaving the painter to the most painful moment he had known with Jeff Durgin, and nearer sympathy.  “That’s all right, Mr. Westover,” Jeff said, “I don’t blame him.”

He remained in a constraint from which he presently broke with mocking hilarity when Jombateeste came round the corner of the house, as if he had been waiting for Whitwell to be gone, and told Jeff he must get somebody else to look after the horses.

“Why don’t you wait and take the horses with you, Jombateeste?” he inquired.  “They’ll be handing in their resignation, the next thing.  Why not go altogether?”

The little Canuck paused, as if uncertain whether he was made the object of unfriendly derision or not, and looked at Westover for help.  Apparently he decided to chance it in as bitter an answer as he could invent.  “The ’oss can’t ’elp ’imself, Mr. Durgin.  ‘E stay.  But you don’ hown everybody.”

“That’s so, Jombateeste,” said Jeff.  “That’s a good hit.  It makes me feel awfully.  Have a cigar?” The Canuck declined with a dignified bow, and Jeff said:  “You don’t smoke any more?  Oh, I see!  It’s my tobacco you’re down on.  What’s the matter, Jombateeste?  What are you going away for?” Jeff lighted for himself the cigar the Canuck had refused, and smoked down upon the little man.

“Mr. W’itwell goin’,” Jombateeste said, a little confused and daunted.

“What’s Mr. Whitwell going for?”