“You must have known something about her, Phoebe,” put in Mrs. Fulsom. “I don’t care what anybody says to the contrary, there’s something queer in a young girl, like her, coming to a strange place, like Brookville, and doing all the things she’s done. It ain’t natural: and that’s what I told the Judge when he was considering the new waterworks. There’s a great deal of money to be made on waterworks, the Judge says.” The eyes were now focused upon Mrs. Fulsom. “Well, I can tell you, she ain’t looking to make money out of Brookville,” said Abby Daggett, laying down her fan and taking an unfinished red flannel petticoat from the basket on the table. “Henry knows all about her plans, and he says it’s the grandest idea! The water’s going to be piped down from the mountain right to our doors—an’ it’ll be just as free as the Water of Life to anybody that’ll take it.” “Yes; but who’s going to pay for digging up the streets and putting ’em back?” piped up an anxious voice from a corner. “We’d ought to, if she does the rest,” said Mrs. Daggett; “but Henry says—” “You can be mighty sure there’s a come-back in it somewhere,” was Mrs. Whittle’s opinion. “The Deacon says he don’t know whether to vote for it or not. We’ll have rain before long; and these droughts don’t come every summer.” Ellen Dix and Fanny Dodge were sitting outside on the porch. Both girls were sewing heart-shaped pieces of white cloth upon squares of turkey-red calico. “Isn’t it funny nobody seems to like her?” murmured Ellen, tossing her head. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they wouldn’t let her bring the water in, for all she says she’ll pay for everything except putting it in the houses.” Fanny gazed at the white heart in the middle of the red square. “It’s awfully hard to sew these hearts on without puckering,” she said. “Fan,” said Ellen cautiously, “does the minister go there much now?” Fanny compressed her lips. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied, her eyes and fingers busy with an unruly heart, which declined to adjust itself to requirements. “What are they going to do with this silly patchwork, anyway?” “Make an autograph quilt for the minister’s birthday; didn’t you know?” Fanny dropped her unfinished work. “I never heard of anything so silly!” she said sharply. “Everybody is to write their names in pencil on these hearts,” pursued Ellen mischievously; “then they’re to be done in tracing stitch in red cotton. In the middle of the quilt is to be a big white square, with a large red heart in it; that’s supposed to be Wesley Elliot’s. It’s to have his monogram in stuffed letters, in the middle of it. Lois Daggett’s doing that now. I think it’s a lovely idea—so romantic, you know.” Fanny did not appear to be listening; her pretty white forehead wore a frowning look. “Ellen,” she said abruptly, “do you ever see anything of Jim nowadays?”