After a good brushing, and “first-aid” treatment of his scratches, Jack pronounced himself as good as new.
“Children,” said Desiré, “we begged so hard for Jack’s safety. We mustn’t fail to say ‘Thank You’ for what we received. Let’s each say a little prayer of thanksgiving right now.”
After a moment of silence they again turned their attention to the business in hand. Desiré and the children stayed with the wagon, while Jack started once more toward the house.
At his knock, the inner door opened, a woman’s head showed behind the glass of the storm door, and then the outer door was pushed back. Almost every dwelling, no matter how small and unpretentious, has its storm door, and usually these are left on all summer.
“I’m taking old Simon’s route this summer,” began Jack, using the words he was to repeat so many times that season; “and I called to see if you need anything.”
“Yes, I do,” answered the plump little woman in the doorway, her black eyes busily inspecting Jack, and traveling rapidly to the wagon, the girl, and the children on the road. “I’m all out of thread, crackers, kerosene, and—what else was it? Oh, yes, shoe laces. Where’s old Simon? I’ve been watching out for him for three weeks.”
“Sick, in Yarmouth,” replied Jack, turning to go to the wagon to fill her order. The woman followed him.
“This your wife?” she asked, curiously staring at Desiré.
Jack flushed.
“No, my sister; and that is another sister, and my kid brother,” he replied, talking more rapidly than usual to hold the woman’s attention; for Desiré, overcome by laughter, had walked a few steps down the road to recover her composure.