in process of reconstruction and repair, the roof had been newly shingled, new frames, with old-fashioned, tiny panes had been put in the windows; a little garden was being laid out under the sheltering branches of the tree, and between the lane and the garden, half finished, was a fence of an original and pleasing design, consisting of pillars placed at intervals with upright pickets between, the pickets sawed in curves, making a line that drooped in the middle.  Janet did not perceive the workman engaged in building this fence until the sound of his hammer attracted her attention.  His back was bent, he was absorbed in his task.

“Are there any stores near here?” she inquired.

He straightened up.  “Why yes,” he replied, “come to think of it, I have seen stores, I’m sure I have.”

Janet laughed; his expression, his manner of speech were so delightfully whimsical, so in keeping with the spirit of her day, and he seemed to accept her sudden appearance in the precise make-believe humour she could have wished.  And yet she stood a little struck with timidity, puzzled by the contradictions he presented of youth and age, of shrewdness, experience and candour, of gentility and manual toil.  He must have been about thirty-five; he was hatless, and his hair, uncombed but not unkempt, was greying at the temples; his eyes—­which she noticed particularly—­were keen yet kindly, the irises delicately stencilled in a remarkable blue; his speech was colloquial yet cultivated, his workman’s clothes belied his bearing.

“Yes, there are stores, in the village,” he went on, “but isn’t it a holiday, or Sunday—­perhaps—­or something of the kind?”

“It’s Decoration Day,” she reminded him, with deepening surprise.

“So it is!  And all the storekeepers have gone on picnics in their automobiles, or else they’re playing golf.  Nobody’s working today.”

“But you—­aren’t you working?” she inquired.

“Working?” he repeated.  “I suppose some people would call it work.  I—­I hadn’t thought of it in that way.”

“You mean—­you like it,” Janet was inspired to say.

“Well, yes,” he confessed.  “I suppose I do.”

Her cheeks dimpled.  If her wonder had increased, her embarrassment had flown, and he seemed suddenly an old acquaintance.  She had, however, profound doubts now of his being a carpenter.

“Were you thinking of going shopping?” he asked, and at the very ludicrousness of the notion she laughed again.  She discovered a keen relish for this kind of humour, but it was new to her experience, and she could not cope with it.

“Only to buy some crackers, or a sandwich,” she replied, and blushed.

“Oh,” he said.  “Down in the village, on the corner where the cars stop, is a restaurant.  It’s not as good as the Parker House in Boston, I believe, but they do have sandwiches, yes, and coffee.  At least they call it coffee.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said.