“You hask Mr. W’itwell.”

“All right.  And if I can get him to stay will you stay too, Jombateeste?  I don’t like to see a rat leaving a ship; the ship’s sure to sink, if he does.  How do you suppose I’m going to run Lion’s Head without you to throw down hay to the horses?  It will be ruin to me, sure, Jombateeste.  All the guests know how you play on the pitchfork out there, and they’ll leave in a body if they hear you’ve quit.  Do say you’ll stay, and I’ll reduce your wages one-half on the spot.”

Jombateeste waited to hear no more injuries.  He said:  “You’ll don’ got money enough, Mr. Durgin, by gosh! to reduce my wages,” and he started down the hill toward Whitwell’s house with as great loftiness as could comport with a down-hill gait and his stature.

“Well, I seem to be getting it all round, Mr. Westover,” said Jeff.  “This must make you feel good.  I don’t know but I begin to believe there’s a God in Israel, myself.”

He walked away without saying good-night, and Westover went to bed without the chance of setting himself right.  In the morning, when he came down to breakfast, and stopped at the desk to engage a conveyance for the station from Frank Whitwell the boy forestalled him with a grave face.  “You don’t know about Mrs. Durgin?”

“No; what about her?”

“Well, we can’t tell exactly.  Father thinks it’s a shock; Jombateeste gone over to Lovewell for the doctor.  Cynthia’s with her.  It seemed to come on in the night.”

He spoke softly, that no one else might hear; but by noon the fact that Mrs. Durgin had been stricken with paralysis was all over the place.  The gloom cast upon the opening season by Jackson’s death was deepened among the guests.  Some who had talked of staying through July went away that day.  But under Cynthia’s management the housekeeping was really unaffected by Mrs. Durgin’s calamity, and the people who stayed found themselves as comfortable as ever.  Jeff came fully into the hotel management, and in their business relation Cynthia and he were continually together; there was no longer a question of the Whitwells leaving him; even Jombateeste persuaded himself to stay, and Westover felt obliged to remain at least till the present danger in Mrs. Durgin’s case was past.

With the first return of physical strength, Mrs. Durgin was impatient to be seen about the house, and to retrieve the season that her affliction had made so largely a loss.  The people who had become accustomed to it stayed on, and the house filled up as she grew better, but even the sight of her in a wheeled chair did not bring back the prosperity of other years.  She lamented over it with a keen and full perception of the fact, but in a cloudy association of it with the joint future of Jeff and Cynthia.

One day, after Mrs. Durgin had declared that she did not know what they were to do, if things kept on as they were going, Whitwell asked his daughter: