“I think the minister ought to pray for rain regular from the pulpit on Sunday,” Mrs. Whittle advanced. “I’m going to tell him so.” “She’s going to do a lot better than that,” said Mrs. Daggett.... “For the land sake, Dolly! I ain’t urged you beyond your strength, and you know it; but if you don’t g’long—” A vigorous slap of the reins conveyed Mrs. Daggett’s unuttered threat to the reluctant animal, with the result that both ladies were suddenly jerked backward by an unlooked for burst of speed. “I think that horse is dangerous, Abby,” remonstrated Mrs. Whittle, indignantly, as she settled her veil. “You ought to be more careful how you speak up to him.” “I’ll risk him!” said Mrs. Daggett with spirit. “It don’t help him none to stop walking altogether and stand stock still in the middle of the road, like he was a graven image. I’ll take the whip to him, if he don’t look out!” Mrs. Whittle gathered her skirts about her, with an apprehensive glance at the dusty road. “If you das’ to touch that whip, Abby Daggett,” said she, “I’ll git right out o’ this buggy and walk, so there!” Mrs. Daggett’s broad bosom shook with merriment. “Fer pity sake, Ann, don’t be scared,” she exhorted her friend. “I ain’t never touched Dolly with the whip; but he knows I mean what I say when I speak to him like that! ...I started in to tell you about the Red-Fox Spring, didn’t I?” Mrs. Whittle coughed dryly. “I wish I had a drink of it right now,” she said. “The idea of that Orr girl watering her flowers and grass, when everybody else in town is pretty near burnt up. Why, we ain’t had water enough in our cistern to do the regular wash fer two weeks. I said to Joe and the Deacon today: ‘You can wear them shirts another day, for I don’t know where on earth you’ll get clean ones.’” “There ain’t nothing selfish about Lydia Orr,” proclaimed Mrs. Daggett joyfully. “What _do_ you think she’s going to do now?” “How should I know?” Mrs. Whittle’s tone implied a jaded indifference to the doings of any one outside of her own immediate family circle. “She’s going to have the Red-Fox piped down to the village,” said Mrs. Daggett. “She’s had a man from Boston to look at it; and he says there’s water enough up there in the mountains to supply two or three towns the size of Brookville. She’s going to have a reservoir: and anybody that’s a mind to can pipe it right into their kitchens.” Mrs. Whittle turned her veiled head to stare incredulously at her companion. “Well, I declare!” she said; “that girl certainly does like to make a show of her money; don’t she? If ’tain’t one thing it’s another. How did a girl like her come by all that money, I’d like to know?” “I don’t see as that’s any of our particular affairs,” objected Mrs. Daggett warmly. “Think of havin’ nice cool spring water, just by turning a faucet. We’re going to have it in our house. And Henry says mebbe he’ll put in a tap and a drain-pipe upstairs. It’d save a lot o’ steps.”