Northrup gave this due consideration. He was preparing to answer something in his own mind. The dull-faced girl was having a peculiar effect upon him. He was getting excited.
“Well, Jan-an,” he said at last, “it’s this way. Things are mattering. Mattering like thunder! And one place isn’t as good as another; this place is the only place on the map just now––catch on?”
Jan-an was making strenuous efforts to “catch on”; her face appeared like a rubber mask that unseen fingers were pinching into comical expressions.
Northrup began to wonder just how mentally lacking the girl was.
“But tuck this away in your noddle, Jan-an. Your Uncle Peter and Aunt Polly have the right understanding. They trust me, and you will some day. I’m going to stay right here––pass that along to anyone who asks you, Jan-an. I’m going to stay here and see this thing out!”
“What thing?”
The elusive something that was puzzling the girl, the sense of something wrong that her blinded but sensitive nature suffered from, loomed close. This man might make it plain.
“What thing?” she asked huskily. Then Northrup laughed that disturbing laugh of his.
“I don’t know, Jan-an. ’Pon my soul, girl, I’d give a good deal to know, but I don’t. I’m like you, just feeling things.”