"I do. I blame them in every way. They must have been unspeakable. Mr. Winslow, I hope you will consider Babbie and me not merely tenants and neighbors, but friends—real friends."
Jed did not reply for at least a minute. Then he said: "I'm afraid you'll be kind of lonesome; my friends are like corn sprouts in a henyard, few and scatterin'."
"So much the better; we shall feel that we belong to select company."
He did not thank her nor answer, but walked slowly on through the dining-room and kitchen, where he opened the door and stepped out upon the grass. There he stood for a moment, gazing at the sky, alternately puckering his lips and opening them, but without saying a word. Mrs. Armstrong and Barbara, who had followed him, watched these facial gymnastics, the lady with astonishment, her daughter with expectant interest.
"I know what he is doing that for, Mamma," she whispered. "It's because he's thinking and don't know whether to whistle or not. When he thinks AWFUL hard he's almost sure to whistle—or sing."
"Hush, hush, Babbie!"
"Oh, he won't hear us. He hardly ever hears any one when he's thinking like that. And see, Mamma, he IS going to whistle."
Sure enough, their guest whistled a few mournful bars, breaking off suddenly to observe:
"I hope there wan't any bones in it."
"Bones in what? What do you mean, Mr. Winslow?" queried Mrs. Armstrong, who was puzzled, to say the least.