The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together were:
“You don’t think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do you? I don’t think you had better—for a day or two, at least.”
It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little stronger.
“We’re glad to have him stay. Don’t you say a word about it,” was the younger Mrs Strong’s answer, when John tried to thank her for all their kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he should be strong and well.
“You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. You could pay your way and his too, and have something over,” said Mr Strong.
But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a while.
“Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as well as there.”
And John answered:
“Yes, I will be glad to come.”
Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself.