But Jed had entered the shop and closed the door. Philander drove off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
A few minutes later Mrs. Armstrong, hearing a knock at the rear door of the Winslow house, opened it to find her landlord standing on the threshold. He was bareheaded and he had no umbrella.
"Why, Mr. Winslow!" she exclaimed. It was the first time that he had come to that house of his own accord since she had occupied it. Now he stood there, in the rain, looking at her without speaking.
"Why, Mr. Winslow," she said again. "What is it? Come in, won't you? You're soaking wet. Come in!"
Jed looked down at the sleeves of his jacket. "Eh?" he drawled, slowly. "Wet? Why, I don't know's I ain't—a little. It's—it's rainin'."
"Raining! It's pouring. Come in."
She took him by the arm and led him through the woodshed and into the kitchen. She would have led him further, into the sitting- room, but he hung back.
"No, ma'am, no," he said. "I—I guess I'll stay here, if you don't mind."
There was a patter of feet from the sitting-room and Barbara came running, Petunia in her arms. At the sight of their visitor's lanky form the child's face brightened.
"Oh, Mr. Winslow!" she cried. "Did you come to see where Petunia and I were? Did you?"