"They were afraid that they would have to make good for the coins, and felt that they must blame somebody," Janice replied with a sigh.

"Of course, Hopewell went right over to tell the schoolmaster what he thought about it as soon as the story reached us. Hopewell thinks highly of the young man, you know."

"Until this thing happened, I thought almost everybody thought highly of him," said Janice, with a sob.

"Oh, my dear!" cried 'Rill, tearful herself, "there is such gossip in Polktown. So many people are ready to make ill-natured and untruthful remarks about one----"

Janice knew to what secret trouble the storekeeper's wife referred. "I know!" she exclaimed, wiping away her own tears. "They have talked horridly about Mr. Drugg."

"It is untruthful! It is unfair!" exclaimed Hopewell Drugg's wife, her cheeks and eyes suddenly ablaze with indignation. To tell the truth, she was like an angry kitten, and had the matter not been so serious, Janice must have laughed at her.

"They have told all over town that Hopewell came home intoxicated from that last dance," continued the wife. "But it is a story--a wicked, wicked story!"

Janice was silent. She remembered what she and Marty and Mrs.

Scattergood had seen on the evening in question--how Hopewell Drugg had looked as he staggered past the street lamp on the corner on his way home with the fiddle under his arm.

She looked away from 'Rill and waited. Janice feared that the poor little bride would discover the expression of her doubt in her eyes.

CHAPTER XII

AN UNEXPECTED EMERGENCY

'Rill seemed to understand what was in Janice's mind and heart. She kept on with strained vehemence:

"I know what they all say! And my mother is as bad as any of them.

They say Hopewell was intoxicated. He was sick, and the bartender mixed him something to settle his stomach. I think maybe he put some liquor in it unbeknown to Hopewell. Or something!

"The poor, dear man was ill all night, Janice, and he never did remember how he got home from the dance. Whatever he drank seemed to befuddle his brain just as soon as he came out into the night air.

That should prove that he's not a drinking man."

"I--I am sorry for you, dear," Janice said softly. "And I am sorry anybody saw Mr. Drugg that evening on his way home."

"Oh, I know you saw him, Janice--and Marty Day and my mother. Mother can be as mean as mean can be! She has never liked Hopewell, as you know."

"Yes, I know," admitted Janice.

"She keeps throwing such things up to me. And her tongue is never still. It is true Hopewell's father was a drinking man."

"Indeed?" said Janice, curiously.

"Yes," sighed 'Rill Drugg. "He was rather shiftless. Perhaps it is the nature of artists so to be," she added reflectively. "For he was really a fine musician. Had Hopewell had a chance he might have been his equal. I often think so," said the storekeeper's bride proudly.

"I know that the elder Mr. Drugg taught the violin."

"Yes. And he used to travel about over the country, giving lessons and playing in orchestras. That used to make Mrs. Drugg awfully angry.

She wanted him to be a storekeeper. She made Hopewell be one. How she ever came to marry such a man as Hopewell's father, I do not see."

"She must have loved him," said Janice wistfully.

"Of course!" cried the bride, quite as innocently. "She couldn't have married him otherwise."

"And was Hopewell their only child?"

"Yes. He seldom saw his father, but he fairly worshiped him. His father was a handsome man--and he used to play his violin for Hopewell.

It was this very instrument my husband prizes so greatly now. When Mr.

Drugg died the violin was hid away for years in the garret.

"You've heard how Hopewell found it, and strung it himself, and used to play on it slyly, and so taught himself to be a fiddler, before his mother had any idea he knew one note from another. She was extremely deaf at the last and could not hear him playing at odd times, up in the attic."

"My!" said Janice, "he must have really loved music."

"It was his only comfort," said the wife softly. "When he was twenty-one what little property his father had left came to him. But his mother did not put the violin into the inventory; so Hopewell said: 'Give me the fiddle and you can have the rest.'"

"He loved it so!" murmured Janice appreciatively:

"Yes. I guess that was almost the only time in his life that Hopewell really a.s.serted himself. With his mother, at least. She was a very stubborn woman, and very stern; more so than my own mother. But Mrs.

Drugg had to give in to him about the violin, for she needed Hopewell to run the store for her. They had little other means.

"But she made him marry 'Cinda Stone," added 'Rill. "Poor 'Cinda! she was never happy. Not that Hopewell did not treat her well. You know, Janice, he is the sweetest-tempered man that ever lived.

"And that is what hurts me more than anything else," sobbed the bride, dabbling her eyes with her handkerchief. "When they say Hopewell gets intoxicated, and is cruel to me and to Lottie, it seems as though--as though I could scratch their eyes out!"

For a moment Hopewell's wife looked so spiteful, and her eyes snapped so, that Janice wanted to laugh. Of course, she did not do so. But to see the mild and sweet-tempered 'Rill display such venom was amusing.

The store door opened with a bang. The girl and the woman both started up, Lottie remaining asleep.

"Hush! Never mind!" whispered Janice to 'Rill. "I'll wait on the customer."

When she went out into the front of the store, she saw that the figure which had entered was in a glistening slicker. It had begun to rain.

"Why, Frank Bowman! Is it you?" she asked, in surprise.

"Oh! how-do, Janice! I didn't expect to find you here."

"Nor I you. What are you doing away up here on the hill?" Janice asked.

Frank Bowman did not look himself. The girl could not make out what the trouble with him was, and she was puzzled.

"I guess you forgot I told you I was moving," he said hesitatingly.

"Oh, I remember! And you've moved up into this neighborhood?"

"Not exactly. I am going to lodge with the Threads, but I shall continue to eat Marm Parraday's cooking."

"The Threads?" murmured Janice.