"Well, I can tell you, she ain't looking to make money out of Brookville," said Abby Daggett, laying down her fan and taking an unfinished red flannel petticoat from the basket on the table. "Henry knows all about her plans, and he says it's the grandest idea! The water's going to be piped down from the mountain right to our doors--an' it'll be just as free as the Water of Life to anybody that'll take it."

"Yes; but who's going to pay for digging up the streets and putting 'em back?" piped up an anxious voice from a corner.

"We'd ought to, if she does the rest," said Mrs. Daggett; "but Henry says--"

"You can be mighty sure there's a come-back in it somewhere," was Mrs. Whittle's opinion. "The Deacon says he don't know whether to vote for it or not. We'll have rain before long; and these droughts don't come every summer."

Ellen Dix and f.a.n.n.y Dodge were sitting outside on the porch. Both girls were sewing heart-shaped pieces of white cloth upon squares of turkey-red calico.

"Isn't it funny n.o.body seems to like her?" murmured Ellen, tossing her head. "I shouldn't be surprised if they wouldn't let her bring the water in, for all she says she'll pay for everything except putting it in the houses."

f.a.n.n.y gazed at the white heart in the middle of the red square.

"It's awfully hard to sew these hearts on without puckering," she said.

"Fan," said Ellen cautiously, "does the minister go there much now?"

f.a.n.n.y compressed her lips.

"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, her eyes and fingers busy with an unruly heart, which declined to adjust itself to requirements.

"What are they going to do with this silly patchwork, anyway?"

"Make an autograph quilt for the minister's birthday; didn't you know?"

f.a.n.n.y dropped her unfinished work.

"I never heard of anything so silly!" she said sharply.

"Everybody is to write their names in pencil on these hearts,"

pursued Ellen mischievously; "then they're to be done in tracing st.i.tch in red cotton. In the middle of the quilt is to be a big white square, with a large red heart in it; that's supposed to be Wesley Elliot's. It's to have his monogram in stuffed letters, in the middle of it. Lois Daggett's doing that now. I think it's a lovely idea--so romantic, you know."

f.a.n.n.y did not appear to be listening; her pretty white forehead wore a frowning look.

"Ellen," she said abruptly, "do you ever see anything of Jim nowadays?"

"Oh! so you thought you'd pay me back, did you?" cried Ellen angrily.

"I never said I cared a rap for Jim Dodge; but you told me a whole lot about Wesley Elliot: don't you remember that night we walked home from the fair, and you--"

f.a.n.n.y suddenly put her hand over her friend's.

"Please don't talk so loud, Ellen; somebody will be sure to hear. I'd forgotten what you said--truly, I had. But Jim--"

"Well?" interrogated Ellen impatiently, arching her slender black brows.

"Let's walk down in the orchard," proposed f.a.n.n.y. "Somebody else can work on these silly old hearts, if they want to. My needle sticks so I can't sew, anyway."

"I've got to help mother cut the cake, in a minute," objected Ellen.

But she stepped down on the parched gra.s.s and the two friends were soon strolling among the fallen fruit of a big sweet apple tree behind the house, their arms twined about each other's waists, their pretty heads bent close together.

Chapter XVI

"The reason I spoke to you about Jim just now," said f.a.n.n.y, "was because he's been acting awfully queer lately. I thought perhaps you knew--I know he likes you better than any of the other girls. He says you have some sense, and the others haven't."

"I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,"

said Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice.

"Yes; it was," admitted f.a.n.n.y reluctantly. "Everything seems to be different since then."

"What has Jim been doing that's any queerer than usual?" inquired Ellen, with some asperity.

f.a.n.n.y hesitated.

"You won't tell?"

"Of course not, if it's a secret."

"Cross your heart an' hope t' die?" quoted f.a.n.n.y from their childhood days.

Ellen giggled.

"Cross m' heart an' hope t' die," she repeated.

"Well, Jim's been off on some sort of a trip," said f.a.n.n.y.

"I don't see anything so very queer about that."

"Wait till I tell you-- You must be sure and not breathe a word, even to your mother; you won't, will you?"

"Fan, you make me mad! Didn't I just say I wouldn't?"

"Well, then; he went with _her_ in the auto; they started about five o'clock in the morning, and Jim didn't get home till after twelve that night."

Ellen laughed, with studied indifference.

"Pity they couldn't have asked us to go along," she said. "I'm sure the car's plenty big enough."

"I don't think it was just for fun," said f.a.n.n.y.

"You don't? What for, then?"

"I asked Jim, and he wouldn't tell me."

"When did you ask him?"