“Well, I declare! If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert! And its a mighty fine thing, too. How did you come by this?”
“Do you think it’s good, Mr. Wheelock?” cried Jane, eagerly, her face glowing.
“It’s fine,” said Mr. Wheelock, in a tone that indicated that he considered his opinion quite final. “And on the top of an old flour barrel, too!” he went on, turning the picture over. “Ain’t that quaint? Well, now, where did you want it sent?”
Jane sat down and copied out the address for him.
“And you’ll wrap it up carefully, Mr. Wheelock?”
“Sure thing. And send it by express, too.”
“And you won’t tell a living soul?”
“Nary a breath. Here, hadn’t you better write your address on the back of this here pitcher—or somewheres, case it might get lost.”
Jane had nearly forgotten this item. She took a post card, and wrote on it boldly, “Paul Winkler, Frederickstown, N. C.”
“There, Mr. Wheelock, will you paste that on the back?”