"Isn't that Mr. Dysart's team?" asked the young man, presently, looking down the valley.
His companion walked to the edge of the porch and pushed back her sunbonnet to look.
"Yes," she announced, "that's Jawn; he's early."
She piled her cushiony hands on the end of the broom-handle, and stood still, gazing absently at the approaching team.
"I hope your mother's a Christian woman," she resumed, with a sort of corpulent severity.
The young man's face clouded, and then cleared again whimsically.
"I really never inquired," he said lightly; "but I am inclined to think she is. She is certainly not a pagan."
"You spoke as if she was a good deal wrapped up in you," continued his hostess, addressing herself unctuously to the landscape. "I was thinkin' she'd need something to sustain her if you was to be taken away. There's nothing but religion that can prepare us for whatever comes. I wonder who that Jawn's a-bringin' now," she broke off suddenly, holding one of her fat hands above her eyes and leaning forward with a start. "He does pick up the queerest lot. I just held my breath the other day when I saw him fetchin' you. I'd been wantin' a boarder all summer, and kind of lookin' for one, but I wasn't no more ready for you than if you'd been measles. It does seem sometimes as if men-folks take a satisfaction in seein' how they can put a woman to."
Mrs. Dysart wabbled heavily indoors, where she creaked about unresignedly, putting things to rights. Palmerston closed his eyes and struggled with a smile that kept breaking into a noiseless laugh. He had a fair, high-bred face, and his smile emphasized its boyishness.
When the wagon rattled into the acacias west of the vineyard, he got up and sauntered toward the barn. John Dysart saw him coming, and took two or three steps toward him with his hand at the side of his mouth.