inted, as were many rooms
in Brookville since the sale of the old Bolton properties. Nearly
every one had scrimped and saved and gone without so long that the
sudden influx of money into empty pockets had acted like wine in a
hungry stomach. Henry Daggett had thrice replenished his stock of
wall papers; window shades and curtaining by the yard had been in
constant demand for weeks; bright colored chintzes and gay flowered
cretonnes were apparently a prime necessity in many households. As
for paper hangers and painters, few awaited their unhurried
movements. It was easy for anybody with energy and common sense to
wield a paintbrush; and old paper could be scraped off and fresh
strips applied by a simple application of flour paste and the
fundamental laws of physics. One improvement clamors loudly for
another, and money was still coming in from the most unexpected
sources, so new furniture was bought to take the place of unprized
chairs and tables long ago salvaged from the Bolton wreck. And since
Mrs. Deacon Whittle's dream parlor, with its marble-tops and
plush-upholstered furniture, had become a solid reality, other
parlors burgeoned forth in multi-colored magnificence. Scraggy old
shrubs were trimmed; grass was cut in unkempt dooryards; flowers were
planted--and all because of the lavish display of such improvements
at Bolton House, as "that queer Orr girl" persisted in calling it;
thereby flying in the face of public opinion and local prejudice in a
way which soured the milk of human kindness before the cream of
gratitude could rise.

Everybody agreed that there was something mysterious, if not entirely
unnatural in the conduct of the young woman. Nobody likes unsolved
riddles for long. The moment or century of suspense may prove
interesting--even exciting; but human intelligence resents the
Sphynx.

Ellen Dix was intensely human. She was, moreover, jealous--or
supposed she was, which often amounts to the same thing. And because
of this she was looking over the dresses, hanging on pegs along her
closet wall, with a demurely puckered brow. The pink muslin was
becoming, but old-fashioned; the pale yellow trimmed with black
velvet might get soiled with the dust, and she wasn't sure it would
wash. She finally selected a white dress of a new and becoming style,
attired in which she presently stood before her mirror adjusting a
plain Panama hat, trimmed simply with a black ribbon. Not for nothing
had Ellen used her han