Fanny Dodge sat by the pleasant west window of the kitchen, engaged in reading those aimless shreds of local information which usually make up the outside pages of the weekly newspaper. She could not possibly feel the slightest interest in the fact that Mr. and Mrs. James M. Snider of West Schofield were entertaining a daughter, whose net weight was reported to be nine and three quarters pounds; or that Miss Elizabeth Wardwell of Eltingville had just issued beautifully engraved invitations to her wedding, which was to take place on the seventeenth day of October—yet she went on reading. Everybody read the paper. Sometimes they talked about what they read. Anyway, her work was over for the day—all except tea, which was negligible; so she went on, somewhat drearily suppressing a yawn, to a description of the new water-works, which were being speedily brought to completion in “our neighboring enterprising town of Brookville.” Fanny already knew all there was to tell concerning the concrete reservoir on the mountain, the big conduit leading to the village and the smaller pipes laid wherever there were householders desiring water. These were surprisingly few, considering the fact that there would be no annual charge for the water, beyond the insignificant sum required for its up-keep. People said their wells were good enough for them; and that spring water wasn’t as good as cistern water, when it came to washing. Some were of the opinion that Lydia Orr was in a fool’s hurry to get rid of her money; others that she couldn’t stand it to be out of the limelight; and still other sagacious individuals felt confident there was something in it for “that girl.” Fanny had heard these various views of Miss Orr’s conduct. She was still striving with indifferent success to rise above her jealousy, and to this end she never failed to champion Lydia’s cause against all comers. Curiously enough, this course had finally brought her tranquillity of a sort and an utter unprotesting acquiescence. Mrs. Whittle had been overheard saying to Mrs. Fulsom that she guessed, after all, Fanny Dodge didn’t care so much about the minister. Fanny, deep once more in the absorbing consideration of the question which had once been too poignant to consider calmly, and the answer to which she was never to know, permitted the paper to slide off her knee to the floor: Why had Wesley Elliot so suddenly deserted her? Surely, he could not have fallen in love with another woman; she was sure he had been in love with her. However, to kiss and forget might be one of the inscrutable ways of men. She was really afraid it was. But Wesley Elliot had never kissed her; had never even held her hand for more than a minute at a time. But those minutes loomed large in retrospect.