“What does he write about?” Janet asked.

“Oh, wild flowers and trees and mountains and streams, and birds and humans—­he has a wonderful insight into people.”

Janet was silent.  She was experiencing a swift twinge of jealousy, of that familiar rebellion against her limitations.

“You must read them, my dear,” Mrs. Brocklehurst continued softly, in musical tones.  “They are wonderful, they have such distinction.  He’s walked, I’m told, over every foot of New England, talking to the farmers and their wives and—­all sorts of people.”  She, too, paused to let her gaze linger upon Insall laughing and chatting with the children as they ate.  “He has such a splendid, `out-door’ look don’t you think?  And he’s clever with his hands he bought an old abandoned farmhouse in Silliston and made it all over himself until it looks as if one of our great-great-grandfathers had just stepped out of it to shoot an Indian only much prettier.  And his garden is a dream.  It’s the most unique place I’ve ever known.”

Janet blushed deeply as she recalled how she had mistaken him for a carpenter:  she was confused, overwhelmed, she had a sudden longing to leave the place, to be alone, to think about this discovery.  Yet she wished to know more.

“But how did he happen to come here to Hampton—­to be doing this?” she asked.

“Well, that’s just what makes him interesting, one never can tell what he’ll do.  He took it into his head to collect the money to feed these children; I suppose he gave much of it himself.  He has an income of his own, though he likes to live so simply.”

“This place—­it’s not connected with any organization?” Janet ejaculated.

“That’s the trouble, he doesn’t like organizations, and he doesn’t seem to take any interest in the questions or movements of the day,” Mrs. Brocklehurst complained.  “Or at least he refuses to talk about them, though I’ve known him for many years, and his people and mine were friends.  Now there are lots of things I want to learn, that I came up from New York to find out.  I thought of course he’d introduce me to the strike leaders, and he tells me he doesn’t know one of them.  Perhaps you know them,” she added, with sudden inspiration.

“I’m only an employee at Strike Headquarters,” Janet replied, stiffening a little despite the lady’s importuning look—­which evidently was usually effective.

“You mean the I.W.W.?”

“Yes.”

Meanwhile Insall had come up and seated himself below them on the edge of the platform.

“Oh, Brooks, your friend Miss Bumpus is employed in the Strike Headquarters!” Mrs. Brocklehurst cried, and turning to Janet she went on.  “I didn’t realize you were a factory girl, I must say you don’t look it.”

Once more a gleam of amusement from Insall saved Janet, had the effect of compelling her to meet the affair somewhat after his own manner.  He seemed to be putting the words into her mouth, and she even smiled a little, as she spoke.