o separate and distinct forums for the
discussion of topics of public and private interest. These were the
barroom of the village tavern, known as the Brookville House, and
Henry Daggett's General Store, located on the corner opposite the old
Bolton Bank Building. Mr. Daggett, besides being Brookville's leading
merchant, was also postmaster, and twice each day withdrew to the
official privacy of the office for the transaction of United States
business. The post office was conveniently located in one corner of
Mr. Daggett's store and presented to the inquiring eye a small glass
window, which could be raised and lowered at will by the person
behind the partition, a few numbered boxes and a slit, marked
"Letters."

In the evening of the day on which Miss Lydia Orr had visited the old
Bolton house in company with Deacon Whittle, both forums were in full
blast. The wagon-shed behind the Brookville House sheltered an
unusual number of "rigs," whose owners, after partaking of liquid
refreshment dispensed by the oily young man behind the bar, by common
consent strolled out to the veranda where a row of battered wooden
armchairs invited to reposeful consideration of the surprising events
of the past few days.

The central chair supported the large presence of "Judge" Fulsom, who
was dispensing both information and tobacco juice.

"The practice of the legal profession," said the Judge, after a brief
period devoted to the ruminative processes, "is full of surprises."

Having spoken, Judge Fulsom folded his fat hands across the somewhat
soiled expanse of his white waistcoat and relapsed into a weighty
silence.

"They was sayin' over to the post office this evening that the young
woman that cleaned up the church fair has bought the old Bolton
place. How about it, Jedge?"

Judge Fulsom grunted, as he leveled a displeased stare upon the
speaker, a young farmer with a bibulous eye and slight swagger of
defiance. At the proper moment, with the right audience, the Judge
was willing to impart information with lavish generosity. But any
attempt to force his hand was looked upon as a distinct infringement
of his privilege.

"You want to keep your face shut, Lute, till th' Jedge gets ready to
talk," counseled a middle-aged man who sat tilted back in the next
chair. "Set down, son, and cool off."

"Well, you see I got to hurry along," objected the young farmer
impatiently, "and I wanted to know if there was anything in it. Our
fol