“Huh! like enough you’ll be talkin’ about a regular nickel-plated bathroom like hers, next,” suspicioned Mrs. Whittle. “The Deacon says he did his best to talk her out of it; but she stuck right to it. And one wa’n’t enough, at that. She’s got three of ’em in that house. That’s worse’n Andrew Bolton.” “Do you mean _worse_, Ann Whittle, or do you mean _better?_ A nice white bathtub is a means o’ grace, I think!” “I mean what I said, Abby; and you hadn’t ought to talk like that. It’s downright sinful. _Means o’ grace! a bathtub!_ Well, I never!” The ladies of the Aid Society were already convened in Mrs. Dix’s front parlor, a large square room, filled with the cool green light from a yard full of trees, whose deep-thrust roots defied the drought. Ellen Dix had just brought in a glass pitcher, its frosted sides proclaiming its cool contents, when the late comers arrived. “Yes,” Mrs. Dix was saying, “Miss Orr sent over a big piece of ice this morning and she squeezed out juice of I don’t know how many lemons. Jim Dodge brought ’em here in the auto; and she told him to go around and gather up all the ladies that didn’t have conveyances of their own.” “And that’s how I came to be here,” said Mrs. Mixter. “Our horse has gone lame.” “Well now, wa’n’t that lovely?” crowed Mrs. Daggett, cooling her flushed face with slow sweeps of the big turkey-feather fan Mrs. Dix handed her. “Ain’t she just the sweetest girl—always thinking of other folks! I never see anything like her.” A subtle expression of reserve crept over the faces of the attentive women. Mrs. Mixter tasted the contents of her glass critically. “I don’t know,” she said dryly, as if the lemonade had failed to cool her parched throat, “that depends on how you look at it.” Mrs. Whittle gave vent to a cackle of rather discordant laughter. “That’s just what I was telling Abby on the way over,” she said. “Once in a while you do run across a person that’s bound to make a show of their money.” Mrs. Solomon Black, in a green and white sprigged muslin dress, her water-waves unusually crisp and conspicuous, bit off a length of thread with a meditative air. “Well,” said she, “that girl lived in my house, off an’ on, for more than two months. I can’t say as I think she’s the kind that wants to show off.” Fifteen needles paused in their busy activities, and twice as many eyes were focused upon Mrs. Solomon Black. That lady sustained the combined attack with studied calm. She even smiled, as she jerked her thread smartly through a breadth of red flannel. “I s’pose you knew a lot more about her in the beginning than we did,” said Mrs. Dodge, in a slightly offended tone.