“Say!” he called out to the hatchet-faced woman who was writing down sundry items in a ledger at a high desk. “The boys has all cleared out. What’s up, I wonder?” “They’ll be back,” said the woman imperturbably, “an’ more with ’em. You want t’ git your glasses all washed up, Gus; an’ you may as well fetch up another demijohn out the cellar.” Was it foreknowledge, or merely coincidence which at this same hour led Mrs. Solomon Black, frugally inspecting her supplies for tomorrow morning’s breakfast, to discover that her baking-powder can was empty? “I’ll have to roll out a few biscuits for their breakfast,” she decided, “or else I’ll run short of bread for dinner.” Her two boarders, Lydia Orr and the minister, were sitting on the piazza, engaged in what appeared to be a most interesting conversation, when Mrs. Black unlatched the front gate and emerged upon the street, her second-best hat carefully disposed upon her water-waves. “I won’t be gone a minute,” she paused to assure them; “I just got to step down to the grocery.” A sudden hush fell upon a loud and excited conversation when Mrs. Solomon Black, very erect as to her spinal column and noticeably composed and dignified in her manner, entered Henry Daggett’s store. She walked straight past the group of men who stood about the door to the counter, where Mr. Daggett was wrapping in brown paper two large dill pickles dripping sourness for a small girl with straw-colored pig-tails. Mr. Daggett beamed cordially upon Mrs. Black, as he dropped two copper pennies in his cash-drawer. “Good evening, ma’am,” said he. “What can I do for you?” “A ten-cent can of baking-powder, if you please,” replied the lady primly. “Must take a lot of victuals to feed them two boarders o’ yourn,” hazarded Mr. Daggett, still cordially, and with a dash of confidential sympathy in his voice. Mr. Daggett had, by virtue of long association with his wife, acquired something of her spontaneous warm-heartedness. He had found it useful in his business. “Oh, they ain’t neither of ’em so hearty,” said Mrs. Black, searching in her pocket-book with the air of one who is in haste. “We was just speakin’ about the young woman that’s stopping at your house,” murmured Mr. Daggett. “Let me see; I disremember which kind of bakin’-powder you use, Mis’ Black.” “The Golden Rule brand, if you please, Mr. Daggett.” “H’m; let me see if I’ve got one of them Golden Rules left,” mused Mr. Daggett.... “I told the boys I guessed she was some relation of th’ Grenoble Orrs, an’ mebbe—” “Well; she ain’t,” denied Mrs. Black crisply. “M-m-m?” interrogated Mr. Daggett, intent upon a careful search among the various canned products on his shelf. “How’d she happen to come to Brookville?” Mrs. Black tossed her head. “Of course it ain’t for me to say,” she returned, with a dignity which made her appear taller than she really was. “But folks has heard of the table I set, ’way to Boston.”