That evening, when the two were consulting the local directory, taking down names and perfecting arrangements, a sudden uproar started near the open windows, and the servants came hurrying in to make protest against the noise; Mary and Emma urged that the master ought to go out and see what was happening. Looking through the open window the group could see that every man, every lad, every woman carried articles capable of producing clamour: some bore dustpans, some toy drums, some fire-irons. Mr. Gleeson felt able to give an explanation to the affrighted woman. It had, he believed, to do with bees; not quite certain about details, he felt sure it concerned bees—swarming or something of the kind. “I don’t want to be stung,” said cook nervously. “Wasps always make straight for me!” The crowd stopped at a house facing the green, and there the hullabaloo increased to such an extent that Mr. Gleeson, finding his cap, announced an intention of putting a stop to the row without further delay. The women expected the turmoil would cease directly he reached the scene; they observed that he spoke to one or two, remonstrating with them; the folk seemed to be making an explanation, and he again used argumentative gestures; they appeared to order him to go away and, after one or two further efforts, he retired. The uproar continued. “Not bees,” he announced, entering the room. “No! My dear, just send the maids to the kitchen.” The girls went. “A primitive custom,” he explained, “with which I was not previously acquainted. It seems a retired farmer living at the house in question lost his wife three months ago.” “Surely a strange way of expressing sympathy.” “That is not exactly the idea. The retired farmer has married again—married the nurse, and the village thinks it not quite right.” “It isn’t right,” she declared warmly. “I consider the villagers are quite justified in their action.” “I don’t agree with you, dear.” “If I died,” she contended, “and you married again in such a short time, I should be very much gratified in looking down to find that people—” “Why do you say ‘down’?” The contention in the Gleesons’ house rivalled the demonstration in the roadway. Mutual apologies having been made the next morning— “I spoke without thinking of what I was saying, my love.” “I suppose, dear, I am too sensitive.” —The great task came up before them to be tackled. Mr. Gleeson made a short speech to his wife on the subject, calling it a scheme for welding the village into one harmonious whole, and they were both gratified by this neat way of putting the case. One harmonious whole, echoed Mrs. Gleeson. One harmonious whole, he repeated firmly.