There was a faint stir as of some consternation in the little company. The elderly ladies stopped talking abruptly and exchanged glances, though this was not of my observation at the moment, I think, but recurred to my consciousness later, when I had perceived my blunder. “May I ask who lives there?” I pursued. Miss Apperthwaite allowed her noticeable lashes to cover her eyes for an instant, then looked up again. “A Mr. Beasley,” she said. “Not the Honorable David Beasley!” I exclaimed. “Yes,” she returned, with a certain gravity which I afterward wished had checked me. “Do you know him?” “Not in person,” I explained. “You see, I've written a good deal about him. I was with the “Spencerville Journal” until a few days ago, and even in the country we know who's who in politics over the state. Beasley's the man that went to Congress and never made a speech--never made even a motion to adjourn--but got everything his district wanted. There's talk of him now for Governor.” “Indeed?” “And so it's the Honorable David Beasley who lives in that splendid place. How curious that is!” “Why?” asked Miss Apperthwaite. “It seems too big for one man,” I answered; “and I've always had the impression Mr. Beasley was a bachelor.” “Yes,” she said, rather slowly, “he is.” “But of course he doesn't live there all alone,” I supposed, aloud, “probably he has--” “No. There's no one else--except a couple of colored servants.” “What a crime!” I exclaimed. “If there ever was a house meant for a large family, that one is. Can't you almost hear it crying out for heaps and heaps of romping children? I should think--” I was interrupted by a loud cough from Mr. Dowden, so abrupt and artificial that his intention to check the flow of my innocent prattle was embarrassingly obvious--even to me! “Can you tell me,” he said, leaning forward and following up the interruption as hastily as possible, “what the farmers were getting for their wheat when you left Spencerville?” “Ninety-four cents,” I answered, and felt my ears growing red with mortification. Too late, I remembered that the new-comer in a community should guard his tongue among the natives until he has unravelled the skein of their relationships, alliances, feuds, and private wars--a precept not unlike the classic injunction: “Yes, my darling daughter. Hang your clothes on a hickory limb, But don't go near the water.” However, in my confusion I warmly regretted my failure to follow it, and resolved not to blunder again.