again with a force that made a wide, square chip leap out. He looked over
his shoulder at Westover, who was moving away. "Say, stop in some time
you're passin'. I live in that wood-colored house at the foot of the
Durgins' lane."




VIII.

In a little sunken place, behind a rock, some rods away, Westover found
Jeff lurking with his dog, both silent and motionless. "Hello?" he said,
inquiringly.

"Come back to show you the way," said the boy. "Thought you couldn't find
it alone."

"Oh, why didn't you say you'd wait?" The boy grinned. "I shouldn't think
a fellow like you would want to be afraid of any man, even for the fun of
scaring a little girl." Jeff stopped grinning and looked interested, as
if this was a view of the case that had not occurred to him. "But perhaps
you like to be afraid."

"I don't know as I do," said the boy, and Westover left him to the
question a great part of the way home. He did not express any regret or
promise any reparation. But a few days after that, when he had begun to
convoy parties of children up to see Westover at work, in the late
afternoon, on their way home from school, and to show the painter off to
them as a sort of family property, he once brought the young Whitwells.
He seemed on perfect terms with them now, and when the crowd of larger