“Well, here we are, Marcia,” said he; “end of the world, anyway as far as I’ve been myself before. So we’re even at that, anyhow.”
“Well, stranger,” said he, turning once more to Joslin, “who are you?”
Joslin knew that he was meeting none other than the “quality folks,” Mr. and Mrs. Haddon of New York—the man whose coat and shoes he was at that time wearing. But with his genius at reticence, he made no comment..
“I jest come down from the Widow Dunham’s to git a little firewood,” said he. “Kin I hep ye up with any of yore things, ma’am?”
The strangely beautiful young woman stood looking at him gravely and unsmilingly, yet kindly. Instinctively, he recognized the soul of a real gentlewoman.
“Thank you,” said she to him now. “There are some things there”—she hesitated, as she turned toward the boat.
“That’s all right, ma’am. I’ll fetch up a bunch of ‘em when I come.”
So he turned to these additional duties, so foreign to his life and taste; but suddenly it seemed to him that just in return for that gaze of hers, not critical, not appraising him as some wild creature, not twitting him or degrading him, he would be willing to do almost anything in the world.
The newcomers were welcomed most effusively by the Widow Dunham herself, who escorted them into the best room of the house, and dusted off all the chairs with her apron, talking meanwhile volubly, and assuring them of her great delight at seeing them.
“Ye’ll like it here, Ma’am, onct ye git used to it. I know yore husband right well—he was here last year. Air ye going back into the hills with him?”