Barbara, who had been listening, nodded excitedly from the big rocker.  “Ever and ever so much,” she declared; “and Petunia would just adore it.”

Poor Jed was greatly perturbed.  “Don’t talk so, Mrs. Armstrong,” he blurted.  “Please don’t.  I—­I don’t want you to.  You—­you make me feel bad.”

“Do I?  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to say anything to hurt your feelings.  I beg your pardon.”

“No, you don’t.  I—­I mean you hadn’t ought to.  You don’t hurt my feelin’s; I mean you make me feel bad—­wicked—­cussed mean—­all that and some more.  I know I ought to let you have this house.  Any common, decent man with common decent feelin’s and sense would let you have it.  But, you see, I ain’t that kind.  I—­I’m selfish and—­and wicked and—­” He waved a big hand in desperation.

She laughed.  “Nonsense!” she exclaimed.  “Besides, it isn’t so desperate as all that.  You certainly are not obliged to rent the house unless you want to.”

“But I do want to; that is, I don’t, but I know I’d ought to want to.  And if I was goin’ to let anybody have it I’d rather ’twould be you—­honest, I would.  And it’s the right thing for me to do, I know that.  That’s what bothers me; the trouble’s with me.  I don’t want to do the right thing.”  He broke off, seemed to reflect and then asked suddenly: 

“Ma’am, do you want to go to heaven when you die?”

The lady was naturally somewhat surprised at the question.  “Why, yes,” she replied, “I—­ Why, of course I do.”

“There, that’s it!  Any decent, sensible person would.  But I don’t.”

Barbara, startled into forgetting that children should be seen and not heard, uttered a shocked “Oh!”

Jed waved his hand.  “You see,” he said, “even that child’s morals are upset by me.  I know I ought to want to go to heaven.  But when I see the crowd that know they’re goin’ there, are sartin of it, the ones from this town, a good many of ’em anyhow; when I hear how they talk in prayer-meetin’ and then see how they act outside of it, I—­ Well,” with a deep sigh, “I want to go where they ain’t, that’s all.”  He paused, and then drawled solemnly, but with a suspicion of the twinkle in his eye:  “The general opinion seems to be that that’s where I’ll go, so’s I don’t know’s I need to worry.”

Mrs. Armstrong made no comment on this confession.  He did not seem to expect any.

“Ma’am,” he continued, “you see what I mean.  The trouble’s with me, I ain’t made right.  I ought to let that house; Sam Hunniwell told me so this mornin’.  But I—­I don’t want to.  Nothin’ personal to you, you understand; but . . .  Eh?  Who’s that?”

A step sounded on the walk outside and voices were heard.  Jed turned to the door.

“Customers, I cal’late,” he said.  “Make yourselves right to home, ma’am, you and the little girl.  I’ll be right back.”

He went out through the dining-room into the little hall.  Barbara, in the big rocker, looked up over Petunia’s head at her mother.