At this point in her meditations Mrs. Black became aware of an insistent voice hailing her from the other side of the picket fence.

It was Mrs. Daggett, her large fair face flushed with the exertion of hurrying down the walk leading from Mrs. Whittle's house.

"Some of us ladies has been clearing up after the fair," she explained, as she joined Mrs. Solomon Black. "It didn't seem no more than right; for even if Ann Whittle doesn't use her parlor, on account of not having it furnished up, she wants it broom-clean. My!

You'd ought to have seen the muss we swept out."

"I'd have been glad to help," said Mrs. Black stiffly; "but what with it being my day to go over to Gren.o.ble, and my boarders t' cook for and all--"

"Oh, we didn't expect you," said Abby Daggett tranquilly. "There was enough of us to do everything."

She beamed warmly upon Mrs. Black.

"Us ladies was saying we'd all better give you a rising vote of thanks for bringing that sweet Miss Orr to the fair. Why, 'twas a real success after all; we took in two hundred and forty-seven dollars and twenty-nine cents. Ain't that splendid?"

Mrs. Black nodded. She felt suddenly proud of her share in this success.

"I guess she wouldn't have come to the fair if I hadn't told her about it," she admitted. "She only come to my house yesterd'y morning."

"In an auto?" inquired Abby Daggett eagerly.

"Yes," nodded Mrs. Black. "I told her I could bring her over in the wagon just as well as not; but she said she had the man all engaged.

I told her we was going to have a fair, and she said right off she wanted to come."

Abby Daggett laid her warm plump hand on Mrs. Black's arm.

"I dunno when I've took such a fancy to anybody at first sight," she said musingly. "She's what I call a real sweet girl. I'm just going to love her, I know."

She gazed beseechingly at Mrs. Solomon Black.

"Mebbe you'll think it's just gossipy curiosity; but I _would_ like to know where that girl come from, and who her folks was, and how she happened to come to Brookville. I s'pose you know all about her; don't you?"

Mrs. Solomon Black coughed slightly. She was aware of the distinction she had already acquired in the eyes of Brookville from the mere fact of Lydia Orr's presence in her house.

"If I do," she began cautiously, "I don't know as it's for me to say."

"Don't fer pity's sake think I'm nosey," besought Abby Daggett almost tearfully. "You know I ain't that kind; but I don't see how folks is going to help being interested in a sweet pretty girl like Miss Orr, and her coming so unexpected. And you know there's them that'll invent things that ain't true, if they don't hear the facts."

"She's from Boston," said Mrs. Solomon Black grudgingly. "You can tell Lois Daggett that much, if she's getting anxious."

Mrs. Daggett's large face crimsoned. She was one of those soft, easily hurt persons whose blushes bring tears. She sniffed a little and raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

"I was afraid you'd--"

"Well, of course I ain't scared of you, Abby," relented Mrs. Black.

"But I says to myself, 'I'm goin' to let Lydia Orr stand on her two own feet in this town,' I says. She can say what she likes about herself, an' there won't be no lies coming home to roost at _my_ house. I guess you'd feel the very same way if you was in my place, Abby."

Mrs. Daggett glanced with childish admiration at the other woman's magenta-tinted face under its jetty water-waves. Even Mrs. Black's everyday hat was handsomer than her own Sunday-best.

"You always was so smart an' sensible, Phoebe," she said mildly. "I remember 'way back in school, when we was both girls, you always could see through arithmetic problems right off, when I couldn't for the life of me. I guess you're right about letting her speak for herself."

"Course I am!" agreed Mrs. Black triumphantly.

She had extricated herself from a difficulty with flying colors. She would still preserve her reputation for being a close-mouthed woman who knew a lot more about everything than she chose to tell.

"Anybody can see she's wearing mournin'," she added benevolently.

"Oh, I thought mebbe she had a black dress on because they're stylish. She did look awful pretty in it, with her arms and neck showing through. I like black myself; but mourning--that's different.

Poor young thing, I wonder who it was. Her father, mebbe, or her mother. You didn't happen to hear her say, did you, Phoebe?"

Mrs. Solomon Black compressed her lips tightly. She paused at her own gate with majestic dignity.

"I guess I'll have to hurry right in, Abby," said she. "I have my bread to set."

Mrs. Solomon Black had closed her gate behind her, noticing as she did so that Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr had disappeared from the piazza where she had left them. She glanced at Mrs. Daggett, lingering wistfully before the gate.

"Goodnight, Abby," said she firmly.

Chapter VI

Mrs. Maria Dodge sifted flour over her molding board preparatory to transferring the sticky ma.s.s of newly made dough from the big yellow mixing bowl to the board. More flour and a skillful twirl or two of the lump and the process of kneading was begun. It continued monotonously for the s.p.a.ce of two minutes; then the motions became gradually slower, finally coming to a full stop.

"My patience!" murmured Mrs. Dodge, slapping her dough smartly.

"f.a.n.n.y ought to be ready by now. They'll be late--both of 'em."

She hurriedly crossed the kitchen to where, through a partly open door, an uncarpeted stair could be seen winding upward.

"f.a.n.n.y!" she called sharply. "f.a.n.n.y! ain't you ready yet?"

A quick step in the pa.s.sage above, a subdued whistle, and her son Jim came clattering down the stair. He glanced at his mother, a slight pucker between his handsome brows. She returned the look with one of fond maternal admiration.

"How nice you do look, Jim," said she, and smiled up at her tall son.

"I always did like you in red, and that necktie--"

Jim Dodge shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.

"Don't know about that tie," he said. "Kind of crude and flashy, ain't it, mother?"

"Flashy? No, of course it ain't. It looks real stylish with the brown suit."

"Stylish," repeated the young man. "Yes, I'm a regular swell--everything up to date, latest Broadway cut."

He looked down with some bitterness at his stalwart young person clad in clothes somewhat shabby, despite a recent pressing.

Mrs. Dodge had returned to her bread which had spread in a ma.s.s of stickiness all over the board.