“No,” with a broad grin, “I ain't finished 'em. Fact is, I ain't begun 'em yet.” “So! Does Dorinda know that you are going up street?” “Um-hm. She knows. Anyhow, she knows I'm goin' somewheres. She told me to go herself.” “She did! Why?” “Don't ask ME. I was all ready to wash the windows; had the bucket pumped full and everything. But when I come into the dinin'-room she sung out to know what I was doin' with all that water on her clean floor. 'Why, Dorindy!' I says, 'I'm a-goin' to wash them windows same's you told me to.' 'No, you ain't,' says she. 'But what will I do?' says I. 'I don't care,' says she. 'Clear out of here, that's all.' 'But where'll I clear out to?' I wanted to know. 'I don't care!' she snaps again, savage as a settin' hen, 'so long's you clear out of my sight.' So here I be. Don't ask me why she changed her mind: _I_ don't know. Nothin' you want to the store?” “No.” “Say, Ros, you know what I think?” “Far be it from me to presume to guess your thoughts, Lute.” “Well, I think this is a strange world and the strangest thing in it is a woman. You never can tell what they'll do ten minutes at a stretch. I--” “All right, Lute. I'll hear the rest of the philosophy later.” “Philosophy or not, it's the livin' truth. And when you're as old as I be you'll know it.” I went in through the dining-room, steering clear of Dorinda, who scarcely looked up from her floor scrubbing. “Mother,” said I, entering the darkened bedroom, “I just met the Colton girl and what do you suppose she told me?” “That she was very grateful to you for coming to her rescue the other night.” “That, of course. But she told me something else. She said she was coming to call on you. On YOU, Mother!” I don't know what answer I expected. I flung the announcement like a bombshell and was ready for almost any sort of explosion at all. “Did she?” observed Mother, placidly. “I am very glad. I have no doubt I shall like her.” My next remark had nothing to do with Miss Colton. “Well, by George!” I exclaimed, with emphasis. “Lute IS a philosopher, after all. I take off my hat to him.” CHAPTER XI I met Mabel Colton several times during the following week. Once, at the place where I had met her before, in the grove by the edge of the bluff, and again walking up the Lane in company with her father. Once also on the Lower Road, though that could scarcely be called a meeting, for I was afoot and she and her father and mother were in the automobile. Only at the meeting in the grove were words exchanged between us. She bowed pleasantly and commented on the wonderful view. “I am trespassing again, you see,” she said. “Taking advantage of your good-nature, Mr. Paine. This spot is the most attractive I have found in Denboro.” I observed that the view from her verandas must be almost the same. “Almost, but not quite,” she said. “These pines shut off the inlet below, and all the little fishing boats. One of them is yours, I suppose. Which?”