Mrs. Flitch said, well, that settled it. They were evidently about to sell the place. Some men were out there looking at it now. No, strangers. She had seen them pass just after the morning train from Atlanta came in. Real-estate men, probably. She said she knew all the time that the place would be sold. The wonder to her was that Helen had stayed out there so long, with her husband practically living in New York. And so on and so forth until they reached the usual discussion of Red Cross supplies. A few days later the ordinary man of the artisan type returned to Shannon with a roll of blue print under his arm. The next thing Shannon knew the roof was off the Cutter house and there was a corps of workmen out there, spreading wings to it, putting on another story and setting up magnificent columns in front to support the coronet-countenance of this house. And from the awful rumpus going on within, it was evident that partitions were being torn out and elegant changes being made. There was no Creel to censor news in Shannon. Rumors started and turned back, or rumors died during a Liberty Loan drive. Finally, it was settled that the Cutters had not sold their place, but that they were spending a fortune rebuilding it. They were not obliged to count the costs, even during these strenuous times when the price of labor and materials were beyond the reach of most people. They had plenty of money and no children. Still, a display of wealth at such a time was certainly in bad taste. Had anybody heard a word from Helen since she went to New York? This query went the rounds of the Red Cross room late in November. No one had heard from Helen. Mrs. Arnold said that her husband had received one or two letters from Mr. Cutter on matters of business. She understood that Mr. Cutter had some kind of government contract and was making a great deal of money. Mrs. Flitch tossed her little gray head, snapped her black eyes and said she supposed the Cutters would come back now and then, with their maids and butlers and valets and fancy dogs, and quarantine themselves in this fine house and refer to the people of Shannon as the “natives.” If they did, it would make no difference to her. She had known the Cutters since George Cutter’s father and mother came to Shannon and lived in a three-room house, and Maggie Cutter did her own work. And she lived next door to the Adamses for twenty years. Helen was nobody but the daughter of Sam Adams who was a carpenter, and she never would be anything else to her. Mrs. Shaw said if it had been her house she would not have painted it colonial yellow. But she admitted the tall white columns “set it off.”