"Good money in this business while the season is on, I imagine," persisted Parkins, by way of keeping the conversation going. "Strange I have never seen you until to-day," he reiterated.
"We are new in this business. Heretofore our family has been in the fishing industry. And latterly, truck farming also. We still ship some vegetables to New York by boat, and sometimes by express. But we are practically out of that business now."
"I suppose you run over to New York once in a while," he smiled.
"No, the farthest trip we've made was to Riverhead, and it's beautiful! Such a pretty park—and a tremendous court house! But we've never been off of the Island, none of us—except mother, who was born in Connecticut."
Parkins, a man of quick discernment, caught a sad expression in the eyes of the girl behind the counter of "The Goody Shop," so named on a neat little sign hinged to the eaves of the sheltering overhang.
"I suppose your mother stays at home and takes care of the family?" he suggested, enquiringly.
"Mother is dead," replied the girl, calmly, a far-away expression in her eyes, as she glanced at the sky. "She died when I was a baby."
Now was Parkins' chance to impress the girl with his "sympathetic" nature. He sighed deeply, and for several moments looked at the ground and said nothing. When, finally, he did speak there was pathos in his voice.
"My mother died when I was a child in arms. I have no memory of her whatever, but her photograph seems to speak to me at times," said he, dreamily.
"I talk to my mother every night," replied Winifred, happily. "She sends messages through me to my father, and tells me what to do for him. He isn't very strong, but that comes from grief over her death. Now he is much better. It was such a long time before she could reach us," she confided, artlessly.