These, not going themselves on the excursion, maintained an air of benevolent superiority that could not conceal vivid curiosity. Among them, eagerly scanning the faces on deck was a very small thin woman clad in a gingham dress, on her head a battered straw hat of accentuated by-gone mode, and an empty provision-basket swinging on her arm. Mrs. Tinneray peering down on her through smoked glasses, suddenly started violently. "My sakes," she ejaculated, "my sakes," then as the dramatic significance of the thing gripped her, "My--my--my, ain't that _terrible_?" Solemnly, with prunella portentousness, Mrs. Tinneray stole back of the other passengers leaning over the rail up to Mrs. Bean, who turned to her animatedly, exclaiming, "They've got a new schoolhouse. I can just see the cupola--there's some changes since I was here. They tell me there's a flag sidewalk in front of the Methodist church and that young Baxter the express agent has growed a mustache, and's got married." Mrs. Tinneray did not answer. She laid a compelling hand on Mrs. Bean's shoulder and turned her so that she looked straight at the small group of home-stayers down on the wharf. She pointed a sepulchral finger, "_That there, in the brown with the basket, is Hetty Cronney, own sister to Mis' Josiah Tuttle._" Mrs. Bean clutched her reticule and leaned over the rail, gasping with interest. "Ye don't say--that's her? My! My! My!" In solemn silence the two regarded the little brown woman so unconscious of their gaze. By the piteous wizened face screwed up in the sunlight, by the faded hair, nut-cracker jaws, and hollow eyes they utterly condemned Mrs. Tuttle, who, blue feathers floating, was also absorbed in watching the stream of embarking excursionists. Mrs. Tinneray, after a whispered consultation with Mrs. Bean went up and nudged her; without ceremony she pointed, "Your sister's down there on the wharf," she announced flatly, "come on over where we are and you can see her." Frivolous Mrs. Tuttle turned and encountered a pair of eyes steely in their determination. Re-adjusting the gold cage more comfortably on its camp-stool and murmuring a blessing on the hooked-beak occupant, the azure lady tripped off in the wake of her flat-heeled friend. Meanwhile Mr. Tinneray, standing well aft, was calling cheerfully down to the little figure on the wharf. "Next Summer you must git your nerve up and come along. Excursions is all the rage nowadays. My wife's took in four a'ready." But little Mrs. Cronney did not answer. Shading her eyes from the sun glare, she was establishing recognizance with her cerulean relative who, waving a careless blue-mitted hand, called down in girlish greeting, "Heigho, Hetty, how's Cronney? Why ain't you to the excursion?" The little woman on the wharf was seen to wince slightly. She shifted her brown basket to the other arm, ignoring the second question. "Oh, Cronney's good--ony he's low-spirited--seems as tho he couldn't get no work."