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He was eyeing the clamshell and looking more and more uneasy.

“You’re not going to scrape it off?” he asked anxiously. “You know, pumice would be better for that, but somehow I don’t like the idea.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Tish. “The double clamshell merely forms a pair of Indian nippers. I’m going to pull it out.”

But he made quite a fuss about it, and said he didn’t care whether the Indians did it or not, he wouldn’t. I think he saw how disappointed Tish was and was afraid she would attempt it while he slept, for he threw the Indian nippers into the lake and then went over and kissed her hand.

“Dear Miss Tish,” he said; “no one realizes more than I your inherent nobility of soul and steadfastness of purpose. I admire them both. But if you attempt the Indian nipper business, or to singe me like a chicken while I sleep, I shall be–forgive me, but I know my impulsiveness of disposition–I shall be really vexed with you.”

Toward the last we all became uneasy for fear hard work was telling on him physically. He used to sit cross-legged on the ground, sewing for dear life and singing Hood’s “Song of the Shirt” in a doleful tenor.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve thought once or twice I’d like to do something–have a business like other fellows. But somehow dressmaking never occurred to me. Don’t you think the expression of this right pant is good? And shall I make this gore bias or on the selvage?”

He wanted to slash one trouser leg.

“Why not?” he demanded when Tish frowned him down. “It’s awfully fetching, and beauty half-revealed, you know. Do you suppose my breastbone will ever straighten out again? It’s concave from stooping.”

It was after this that Tish made him exercise morning and evening and then take a swim in the lake. By the time he was to start back, he was in wonderful condition, and even the horse looked saucy and shiny, owing to our rubbing him down each day with dried grasses.

The actual leave-taking was rather sad. We’d grown to think a lot of the boy and I believe he liked us. He kissed each one of us twice, once for himself and once for Dorothea, and flushed a little over doing it, and Aggie’s eyes were full of tears.

He rode away down the trail like a mixture of Robinson Crusoe and Indian brave, his rubbing-fire stick, his sundial with burned figures, and his bow and arrow jingling, his eagle feather blowing back in the wind, and his moccasined feet thrust into Mr. Willoughby’s stirrups, and left us desolate. Tish watched him out of sight with set lips and Aggie was whimpering on a bank.

“Tish,” she said brokenly, “does he recall anything to you?”

“Only my age,” said Tish rather wearily, “and that I’m an elderly spinster teaching children to defy their parents and committing larceny to help them.”

“To me,” said Aggie softly, “he is young love going out to seek his mate. Oh, Tish, do you remember how Mr. Wiggins used to ride by taking his work horses to be shod!”

* * * * *

We went home the following day, which was the time the spring-wagon man was to meet us. We started very early and were properly clothed and hatted when we saw him down the road.

The spring-wagon person came on without hurry and surveyed us as he came.

“Well, ladies,” he said, stopping before us, “I see you pulled it off all right.”

“We’ve had a very nice time, thank you,” said Tish, drawing on her gloves. “It’s been rather lonely, of course.”

The spring-wagon person did not speak again until he had reached the open road. Then he turned round.

“The horse business was pretty good,” he said. “You ought to hev seen them folks when he rode out of the wood. Flabbergasted ain’t the word. They was ding-busted.”