“A good place,” said Mrs. Daggett. “Remember Fanny peeking through them wreaths last summer? Pretty as a pink! An’ now she’s Mis’ Reveren’ Elliot. I seen him looking at her that night.... My! My! What lots of things have took place in our midst since then.” Mrs. Dodge, from the lofty elevation of a stepladder, looked across the room. “Here comes Ann Whittle with two baskets,” she said, “and Mrs. Solomon Black carrying a big cake, and a whole crowd of ladies just behind ’em.” “Glad they ain’t going to be late like they was last year,” said Mrs. Daggett. “My sakes! I hadn’t thought so much about that fair till today; the scent of the evergreens brings it all back. We was wondering who’d buy the things; remember, Maria?” “I should say I did,” assented Mrs. Dodge, hopping nimbly down from the ladder. “There, that looks even nicer than it did at the fair; don’t you think so, Abby?” “It looks perfectly lovely, Maria.” “Well, here we are at last,” announced Mrs. Whittle as she entered. “I had to wait till the frosting stiffened up on my cake.” She bustled over to a table and began to take the things out of her baskets. Mrs. Daggett hurried forward to meet Mrs. Solomon Black, who was advancing with slow majesty, bearing a huge disk covered with tissue paper. Mrs. Black was not the only woman in the town of Brookville who could now boast sleeves made in the latest Parisian style. Her quick black eyes had already observed the crisp blue taffeta, in which Mrs. Whittle was attired, and the fresh muslin gowns decked with uncreased ribbons worn by Mrs. Daggett and her friend, Maria Dodge. Mrs. Solomon Black’s water-waves were crisp and precise, as of yore, and her hard red cheeks glowed like apples above the elaborate embroidery of her dress. “Here, Mis’ Black, let me take your cake!” offered Abby Daggett. “I sh’d think your arm would be most broke carryin’ it all the way from your house.” “Thank you, Abby; but I wouldn’t das’ t’ resk changin’ it; I’ll set it right down where it’s t’ go.” The brisk chatter and laughter, which by now had prevaded the big place, ceased as by a preconcerted signal, and a dozen women gathered about the table toward which Mrs. Solomon Black was moving like the central figure in some stately pageant. “Fer pity sake!” whispered Mrs. Mixter, “what d’ you s’pose she’s got under all that tissue paper?” Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the other of the eager, curious faces gathered around. “There!” she said. “I feel now ’s ’o’ I could dror m’ breath once more. I ain’t joggled it once, so’s t’ hurt, since I started from home.” Then slowly she withdrew the shrouding tissue paper from the creation she had thus triumphantly borne to its place of honor, and stood off, a little to one side, her face one broad smile of satisfaction. “Fer goodness’ sake!” “Did you ev—er!” “Why, Mis’ Black!” “Ain’t that just—”