ny rate.

He rose and, going to the window, looked out once more across the
yard. What he saw astonished him. The back door of the house was
partially open and a man was just coming out. The man, in dripping
oil-skins and a sou'wester, was Philander Hardy, the local
expressman. Philander turned and spoke to some one in the house
behind him. Jed opened the shop door a crack and listened.

"Yes, ma'am," he heard Hardy say. "I'll be back for 'em about four
o'clock this afternoon. Rain may let up a little mite by that
time, and anyhow, I'll have the covered wagon. Your trunks won't
get wet, ma'am; I'll see to that."

A minute later Jed, an old sweater thrown over his head and
shoulders, darted out of the front door of his shop. The express
wagon with Hardy on the driver's seat was just moving off. Jed
called after it.

"Hi, Philander!" he called, raising his voice only a little, for
fear of being overheard at the Armstrong house. "Hi, Philander,
come here a minute. I want to see you."

Mr. Hardy looked over his shoulder and then backed his equipage
opposite the Winslow gate.

"Hello, Jedidah Shavin's," he observed, with a grin. "Didn't know
you for a minute, with that shawl over your front crimps. What you
got on your mind; anything except sawdust?"

Jed was too much perturbed even to resent the loathed name "Jedidah."

"Philander," he whispered, anxiously; "say, Philander, what does
she want? Mrs. Armstrong, I mean? What is it you're comin' back
for at four o'clock?"

Philander looked down at the earnest face under the ancient
sweater. Then he winked, solemnly.

"Well, I tell you, Shavin's," he said. "You see, I don't know how
'tis, but woman folks always seem to take a terrible shine to me.
Now this Mrs. Armstrong here-- Say, she's some peach, ain't she!--
she ain't seen me more'n half a dozen times, but here she is
beggin' me to fetch her my photograph. 'It's rainin' pretty hard,
to-day,' I says. 'Won't it do if I fetch it to-morrow?' But no,
she--"

Jed held up a protesting hand. "I don't doubt she wants your
photograph, Philander," he drawled. "Your kind of face is rare.
But I heard you say somethin' about comin' for trunks. Whose
trunks?"

"Whose? Why, hers and the young-one's, I presume likely. 'Twas
them I fetched from Luretta Smalley's. Now she wants me to take
'em back there."

A tremendous gust, driven in from the sea, tore the sweater from
the Winslow head and shou