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“Ruby, I really couldn’t go,” I said. “You don’t feel cross about it, do you?”

“Oh, no,” she answered, with some earnestness. “And I knew you were busy.”

“And about Jim–what’s the matter with the wheel?” I asked, greatly relieved at the discovery that whatever troubled her, my staying at home had not caused it.

“One of the buckets is broken–Uncle Jim always fixes it,” and she turned her head away to hide her tears.

“Is Jim a carpenter, too?” I asked, with a smile.

“Why, yes,” she replied. “Didn’t you know that? They often send for him to fix the mill. There’s no one else about here who can.” And she changed the conversation and began talking of the beauty of that part of the brook where they had been to fish, and of the rich brown tint of the water in the pools, and how lovely the red sumachs were reflected in their depths.

The next morning, and without any previous warning, Ruby appeared in her cloth dress and jacket and announced her intention of taking the stage back to Plymouth, adding that as Jim had not returned, Marvin must drive her over to the cross-roads. I offered my services, but she declined them graciously but firmly, bidding me good-by and saying with one of her earnest looks, as she held my hand in hers, that she should never forget my kindness to Jim, and that she would always remember me for what I had done for him, and then she added with peculiar tenderness:

“And dear Uncle Jim won’t forget you, either.”

And so she had gone, and with her had faded all the light and joyousness of the place.

When Jim returned the next day I was at work in the pasture painting a group of white birches. I hallooed to him as he shambled along within a hundred yards of me, swinging his arms, but he did not answer except to turn his head.

That night at table he replied to my questions in monosyllables, explaining his not stopping when I had called in the morning by saying that he didn’t want to “‘sturb me,” and when I laughed and told him–using his own words–that Ruby “wouldn’t pass a fellow and give him the dead, cold shake,” he pushed back his chair with a sudden impatient gesture, said he had forgotten something, and left the table without a word or look in reply.

I knew then that I had hurt him in some way.

“What’s the matter with Jim, Mr. Marvin? He seems put out about something. Did he say anything to you?” I asked, astonished at Jim’s behavior, and anxious for some clew by which to solve its mystery.

“Got one o’ his spells on. Gits that way sometimes, and when he does ye can’t git no good out o’ him. I want them turnips dug, and he’s got to do it or git out. I ain’t hired him to loaf ’round all day with Ruby and to sulk when she’s gone. I’m a-payin’ him wages right along, ain’t I?” he added with some fierceness as he stopped at the door. “What he gits for fixin’ the mill ain’t nothin’ to me–I don’t git a cent on it.”

III

When the morning came and Jim had not returned I started for the mill. I found him alone, sitting idly on a bench near the water-wheel. I had heard the hum of the saw before I reached the dam and knew that he had finished his work.

“Jim,” I said, walking up to him and extending my hand, “if I have done anything to hurt your feelings, I’m sorry. If I had known you would have been put out by my not going with Ruby I would have let the mail wait.”

He took my hand mechanically, but he did not raise his eyes. The old look had returned to his face, as if he were afraid of some sudden blow. “I did all I could to make Ruby’s visit a happy one–don’t you know I did?” I continued.