Will sat on stolidly, helping himself to more tea and pouring the milk into the slop-basin. Presently Caleb returned, announcing that Jinny had brought something for Will—she could only legally deliver it to Mr. Flynt, junior, she said.
Will turned redder than at the egg-talk. “But I never ordered anything,” he said.
“You can’t prewent folks sendin’ you presents, same as they’re foolish enough,” Caleb reminded him.
A fantastic fear that the blue-eyed girl of the train was discharging some proof of devotion at him made him drum nervously with his teaspoon. “But who knows I’m back home?” he answered Caleb.
Through the open house-door came the gay strains of a fresh young voice:
“But still he’d sing fol de rol iddle ol!”
“Don’t she sing pritty?” sighed Caleb.
“I’d sooner hear her singing about Zion,” said Martha. “She’s rather flighty, to my thinking.”
“That’s the first time Oi heard ye say a word agen Jinny,” said Caleb, “leastways behind her back.”
Will, tingling between the two tortures—the song without and the table-talk within—sprang up brusquely. “Drat the girl—my tea’ll get cold. Sit down, dad, I’ll see what she’s brought.”