"Nothin', that I can see," sighed Susan profoundly. "Oh, he plays that solitary some, an' putters a little with some of his raised books; but mostly he jest sits still an' thinks. An' I don't like it. If only his father was here. But with him gone peddlin' molasses, an' no one 'lowed into the house, there ain't anything for him to do but to think. An' 'tain't right nor good for him. I've watched him an' I know."
"But he used to see people, Susan."
"I know it. He saw everybody."
"Do you know why he won't—now?" asked the girl a little faintly.
"I hain't the faintest inception of an idea. It came as sudden as that," declared Susan, snapping her finger.
"Then he hasn't said anything special about not wanting to see—me?"
"Why, no. He—Do you mean—HAS he found out?" demanded Susan, interrupting herself excitedly.
"Yes. He found out last Monday afternoon. Mazie ran up on to the porch and called me by name right out. Oh, Susan, it was awful. I shall never forget the look on that boy's face as long as I live."
"Lan' sakes! MONDAY!" breathed Susan. "An' Tuesday he began refusin' to see folks. Then 'course that was it. But why won't he see other folks? They hain't anything to do with you."
"I don't know—unless he didn't want to tell you specially not to let me in, and so he said not to let anybody in."