suggested Mrs. Dodge.

"If they can be repaired, I certainly do," replied Lydia.

"Mother!" expostulated f.a.n.n.y, in a low but urgent tone. "Ellen and I--we really ought to be going."

The girl's face glowed with shamed crimson. She felt haughty and humiliated and angry all at once. It was not to be borne.

Mrs. Dix was not listening to f.a.n.n.y Dodge.

"I bid in the big, four-post mahogany bed at the auction," she said, "and the bureau to match; an' I believe there are two or three chairs about the house."

"We've got a table," chimed in Mrs. Dodge; "but one leg give away, an' I had it put up in the attic years ago. And f.a.n.n.y's got a bed and bureau in her room that was painted white, with little pink flowers tied up with blue ribbons. Of course the paint is pretty well rubbed off; but--"

"Oh, might I have that set?" cried Lydia, turning to f.a.n.n.y. "Perhaps you've grown fond of it and won't want to give it up. But I--I'd pay almost anything for it. And of course I shall want the mahogany, too."

"Well, we didn't know," explained Mrs. Dix, with dignity. "We got those pieces instead of the money we'd ought to have had from the estate. There was a big crowd at the auction, I remember; but n.o.body really wanted to pay anything for the old furniture. A good deal of it had come out of folks' attics in the first place."

"I shall be glad to pay three hundred dollars for the mahogany bed and bureau," said Lydia. "And for the little white set--"

"I don't care to part with my furniture," said f.a.n.n.y Dodge, her pretty round chin uplifted.

She was taller than Lydia, and appeared to be looking over her head with an intent stare at the freshly papered wall beyond.

"For pity sake!" exclaimed her mother sharply. "Why, f.a.n.n.y, you could buy a brand new set, an' goodness knows what-all with the money.

What's the matter with you?"

"I know just how f.a.n.n.y feels about having her room changed," put in Ellen Dix, with a spirited glance at the common enemy. "There are things that money can't buy, but some people don't seem to think so."

Lydia's blue eyes had clouded swiftly.

"If you'll come into the library," she said, "we'll have some lemonade. It's so very warm I'm sure we are all thirsty."

She did not speak of the furniture again, and after a little the visitors rose to go. Mrs. Dodge lingered behind the others to whisper:

"I'm sure I don't know what got into my f.a.n.n.y. Only the other day she was wishing she might have her room done over, with new furniture and all. I'll try and coax her."

But Lydia shook her head.

"Please don't," she said. "I want that furniture very much; but--I know there are things money can't buy."

"Mebbe you wouldn't want it, if you was t' see it," was Mrs. Dodge's honest opinion. "It's all turned yellow, an' the pink flowers are mostly rubbed off. I remember it was real pretty when we first got it. It used to belong to Mrs. Bolton's little girl. I don't know as anybody's told you, but they had a little girl. My! what an awful thing for a child to grow up to! I've often thought of it. But mebbe she didn't live to grow up. None of us ever heard."

"Mother!" called f.a.n.n.y, from the front seat of the carryall. "We're waiting for you."

"In a minute, f.a.n.n.y," said Mrs. Dodge.... "Of course you can have that table I spoke of, Miss Orr, and anything else I can find in the attic, or around. An' I was thinking if you was to come down to the Ladies' Aid on Friday afternoon--it meets at Mrs. Mixter's this week, at two o'clock; you know where Mrs. Mixter lives, don't you? Well; anyway, Mrs. Solomon Black does, an' she generally comes. But I know lots of the ladies has pieces of that furniture; and most of them would be mighty glad to get rid of it. But they are like my f.a.n.n.y--kind of contrary, and backward about selling things. I'll talk to f.a.n.n.y when we get home. Why, she don't any more want that old painted set--"

"Mother!" f.a.n.n.y's sweet angry voice halted the rapid progress of her mother's speech for an instant.

"I shouldn't wonder if the flies was bothering th' horse," surmised Mrs. Dodge; "he does fidget an' stamp somethin' terrible when the flies gets after him; his tail ain't so long as some.... Well, I'll let you know; and if you could drop around and see the table and all-- Yes, some day this week. Of course I'll have to buy new furniture to put in their places; so will Mrs. Dix. But I will say that mahogany bed is handsome; they've got it in their spare room, and there ain't a scratch on it. I can guarantee that.... Yes; I guess the flies are bad today; looks like rain. Good-by!"

Lydia stood watching the carryall, as it moved away from under the milk-white pillars of the restored portico. Why did f.a.n.n.y Dodge and Ellen Dix dislike her, she wondered, and what could she do to win their friendship? Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by Martha, the taciturn maid.

"I found this picture on the floor, Miss Lydia," said Martha; "did you drop it?"

Lydia glanced at the small, unmounted photograph. It was a faded snapshot of a picnic party under a big tree. Her eyes became at once riveted upon the central figures of the little group; the pretty girl in the middle was f.a.n.n.y Dodge; and behind her--yes, surely, that was the young clergyman, Wesley Elliot. Something in the att.i.tude of the man and the coquettish upward tilt of the girl's face brought back to her mind a forgotten remark of Mrs. Solomon Black's. Lydia had failed to properly understand it, at the time. Mrs. Solomon Black was given to cryptic remarks, and Lydia's mind had been preoccupied by the increasing difficulties which threatened the accomplishment of her purpose:

"A person, coming into a town like Brookville to live, by rights had ought to have eyes in the backs of their heads," Mrs. Black had observed.

It was at breakfast time, Lydia now remembered, and the minister was late, as frequently happened.

"I thought like's not n.o.body would mention it to you," Mrs. Black had further elucidated. "Of course _he_ wouldn't say anything, men-folks are kind of sly and secret in their doings--even the best of 'em; and you'll find it's so, as you travel along life's path-way."

Mrs. Black had once written a piece of poetry and it had actually been printed in the Gren.o.ble _News_; since then she frequently made use of figures of speech.

"A married woman and a widow can speak from experience," she went on.

"So I thought I'd just tell you: he's as good as engaged, already."

"Do you mean Mr. Elliot?" asked Lydia incuriously.

Mrs. Black nodded.

"I thought you ought to know," she said.

Mr. Elliot had entered the room upon the heels of this warning, and Lydia had promptly forgotten it. Now she paused for a swift review of the weeks which had already pa.s.sed since her arrival. Mr. Elliot had been un.o.btrusively kind and helpful from the first, she remembered.

Later, he had been indefatigable in the matter of securing workmen for the restoration of the old house, when she made it clear to him that she did not want an architect and preferred to hire Brookville men exclusively. As seemed entirely natural, the minister had called frequently to inspect the progress of the work. Twice in their rounds together they had come upon Jim Dodge; and although the clergyman was affable in his recognition and greeting, Lydia had been unpleasantly surprised by the savage look on her landscape-gardener's face as he returned the polite salutation.

"Don't you like Mr. Elliot?" she had ventured to inquire, after the second disagreeable incident of the sort.

Jim Dodge had treated her to one of his dark-browed, incisive glances before replying.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question satisfactorily, Miss Orr,"

was what he said.

And Lydia, wondering, desisted from further question.

"That middle one looks some like one of the young ladies that was here this morning," observed Martha, with the privileged familiarity of an old servant.

"She must have dropped it," said Lydia, slowly.

"The young ladies here in the country has very bad manners,"

commented Martha, puckering her lips primly. "I wouldn't put myself out for them, if I was you, mem."

Lydia turned the picture over and gazed abstractedly at the three words written there: "Lest we forget!" Beneath this pertinent quotation appeared the initials "W. E."

"If it was for _me_ to say," went on Martha, in an injured tone, "I'd not be for feedin' up every man, woman and child that shows their face inside the grounds. Why, they don't appreciate it no more than--"

The woman's eloquent gesture appeared to include the blue-bottle fly buzzing noisily on the window-pane:

"Goodness gracious! if these flies ain't enough to drive a body crazy--what with the new paint and all...."