Her fears were realized. Mr. Kendall, although not on hand “six nights out of five,” as the captain prophesied, was a frequent visitor at the Snow place. As Albert's story-writing progressed the discussions concerning the growth and development of the hero's character became more and more involved and spirited. They were for the most part confined, when the minister was present, to him and Mrs. Snow and Rachel. Laban, if he happened to be there, sat well back in the corner, saying little except when appealed to, and then answering with one of his dry, characteristic observations. Captain Lote, in the rocker, his legs crossed, his hand stroking his beard, and with the twinkle in his eyes, listened, and spoke but seldom. Occasionally, when he and his grandson exchanged glances, the captain winked, indicating appreciation of the situation.
“Say, Al,” he said, one evening, after the old clergyman had departed, “it must be kind of restful to have your work all laid out for you this way. Take it to-night, for instance; I don't see but what everything's planned for this young feller you're writin' about so you nor he won't have to think for yourselves for a hundred year or such matter. Course there's some little difference in the plans. Rachel wants him to get wrecked on an island or be put in jail, and Mother, she wants him to be a soldier and a poet, and Mr. Kendall thinks it's high time he joined the church or signed the pledge or stopped swearin' or chewin' gum.”
“Zelotes, how ridiculous you do talk!”
“All right, Mother, all right. What strikes me, Al, is they don't any of 'em stop to ask you what YOU mean to have him do. Course I know 'tain't any of your business, but still—seems 's if you might be a little mite interested in the boy yourself.”
Albert laughed. “Don't worry, Grandfather,” he said. “I'm enjoying it all very much. And some of the suggestions may be just what I'm looking for.”
“Well, son, we'll hope so. Say, Labe, I've got a notion for keepin' the minister from doin' all the talkin.' We'll ask Issy Price to drop in; eh?”
Laban shook his head. “I don't know, Cap'n Lote,” he observed. “Sounds to me a good deal like lettin' in a hurricane to blow out a match with. . . . Um-hm. Seems so to me. Yes, yes.”
Mr. Kendall's calls would have been more frequent still had Helen not interfered. Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a little later and insisted upon his making an early start for home. Occasionally she came with him. She, too, seemed much interested in the progress of the stories, but she offered few suggestions. When directly appealed to, she expressed her views, and they were worth while.
Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit himself to think of her except as a friend. That is, he hoped he was; thoughts are hard to control at times. He saw her often. They met on the street, at church on Sunday—his grandmother was so delighted when he accompanied her to “meeting” that he did so rather more frequently, perhaps, than he otherwise would—at the homes of acquaintances, and, of course, at the Snow place. When she walked home with her father after a “story evening” he usually went with them as additional escort.
She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first meeting that morning at the parsonage. He knew, therefore, that some one—his grandmother, probably—had told her of the broken engagement. When they were alone together they talked of many things, casual things, the generalities of which, so he told himself, a conversation between mere friends was composed. But occasionally, after doing escort duty, after Mr. Kendall had gone into the house to take his “throat medicine”—a medicine which Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength pretty soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings—they talked of matters more specific and which more directly concerned themselves. She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before the war, and of her plans for the future. The latter, of course, were very indefinite now.