se I ain't scared of you, Abby," relented Mrs. Black.
"But I says to myself, 'I'm goin' to let Lydia Orr stand on her two
own feet in this town,' I says. She can say what she likes about
herself, an' there won't be no lies coming home to roost at _my_
house. I guess you'd feel the very same way if you was in my place,
Abby."

Mrs. Daggett glanced with childish admiration at the other woman's
magenta-tinted face under its jetty water-waves. Even Mrs. Black's
everyday hat was handsomer than her own Sunday-best.

"You always was so smart an' sensible, Phoebe," she said mildly. "I
remember 'way back in school, when we was both girls, you always
could see through arithmetic problems right off, when I couldn't for
the life of me. I guess you're right about letting her speak for
herself."

"Course I am!" agreed Mrs. Black triumphantly.

She had extricated herself from a difficulty with flying colors. She
would still preserve her reputation for being a close-mouthed woman
who knew a lot more about everything than she chose to tell.

"Anybody can see she's wearing mournin'," she added benevolently.

"Oh, I thought mebbe she had a black dress on because they're
stylish. She did look awful pretty in it, with her arms and neck
showing through. I like black myself; but mourning--that's different.
Poor young thing, I wonder who it was. Her father, mebbe, or her
mother. You didn't happen to hear her say, did you, Phoebe?"

Mrs. Solomon Black compressed her lips tightly. She paused at her own
gate with majestic dignity.

"I guess I'll have to hurry right in, Abby," said she. "I have my
bread to set."

Mrs. Solomon Black had closed her gate behind her, noticing as she
did so that Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr had disappeared from the
piazza where she had left them. She glanced at Mrs. Daggett,
lingering wistfully before the gate.

"Goodnight, Abby," said she firmly.

Chapter VI

Mrs. Maria Dodge sifted flour over her molding board preparatory to
transferring the sticky mass of newly made dough from the big yellow
mixing bowl to the board. More flour and a skillful twirl or two of
the lump and the process of kneading was begun. It continued
monotonously for the space of two minutes; then the motions became
gradually slower, finally coming to a full stop.

"My patience!" murmured Mrs. Dodge, slapping her dough smartly.
"Fanny ought to be ready by now. They'll be late--both of 'em."

She hurriedly crossed the kitch