“You don’t say!” exclaimed Mr. Daggett. “So she come from Boston, did she? I thought she seemed kind of—” “I don’t know as there’s any secret about where she _come_ from,” returned Mrs. Black aggressively. “I never s’posed there was. Folks ain’t had time to git acquainted with her yit.” “That’s so,” agreed Mr. Daggett, as if the idea was a new and valuable one. “Yes, ma’am; you’re right! we ain’t none of us had time to git acquainted.” He beamed cordially upon Mrs. Black over the tops of his spectacles. “Looks like we’re going to git a chance to know her,” he went on. “It seems the young woman has made up her mind to settle amongst us. Yes, ma’am; we’ve been hearing she’s on the point of buying property and settling right down here in Brookville.” An excited buzz of comment in the front of the store broke in upon this confidential conversation. Mrs. Black appeared to become aware for the first time of the score of masculine eyes fixed upon her. “Ain’t you got any of the Golden Rule?” she demanded sharply. “That looks like it to me—over in behind them cans of tomatoes. It’s got a blue label.” “Why, yes; here ’tis, sure enough,” admitted Mr. Daggett. “I guess I must be losing my eyesight.... It’s going to be quite a chore to fix up the old Bolton house,” he added, as he inserted the blue labeled can of reputation in a red and yellow striped paper bag. “That ain’t decided,” snapped Mrs. Black. “She could do better than to buy that tumble-down old shack.” “So she could; so she could,” soothed the postmaster. “But it’s going to be a good thing for the creditors, if she can swing it. Let me see, you wa’n’t a loser in the Bolton Bank; was you, Mis’ Black?” “No; I wa’n’t; my late departed husband had too much horse-sense.” And having thus impugned less fortunate persons, Mrs. Solomon Black departed, a little stiffer as to her back-bone than when she entered. She had imparted information; she had also acquired it. When she had returned rather later than usual from selling her strawberries in Grenoble she had hurried her vegetables on to boil and set the table for dinner. She could hear the minister pacing up and down his room in the restless way which Mrs. Black secretly resented, since it would necessitate changing the side breadths of matting to the middle of the floor long before this should be done. But of Lydia Orr there was no sign. The minister came promptly down stairs at sound of the belated dinner-bell. But to Mrs. Black’s voluble explanations for the unwonted hour he returned the briefest of perfunctory replies. He seemed hungry and ate heartily of the cold boiled beef and vegetables. “Did you see anything of _her_ this morning?” asked Mrs. Black pointedly, as she cut the dried-apple pie. “I can’t think what’s become of her.” Wesley Elliot glanced up from an absent-minded contemplation of an egg spot on the tablecloth. “If you refer to Miss Orr,” said he, “I did see her—in a carriage with Deacon Whittle.”