etter, while
Walter Lodloe sat over there in the moonlight with Calthea Rose.

"You need not have given yourself any anxiety," she said to her
companion, "for I have not the slightest idea of discharging Ida. She
suits me admirably, and what they say about her is all nonsense; of
course I do not mean any disrespect to Mrs. Petter."

Mr. Petter deprecatingly waved his hand.

"I understand perfectly your reference to my wife," he said "Her mind, I
think, has been acted upon by others. Allow me to say, madam, that your
words have encouraged and delighted me. I feel we are moving in the
right direction. I breathe better."

"How is it possible," thought Mrs. Cristie, during the delivery of this
speech, "that he can sit there, and sit, and sit, and sit, when he knows
at this hour I am always somewhere about the house or grounds, and never
in my room? Well, if he likes to sit there, let him sit"; and with this
she looked up with some vivacity into the face of her landlord and
asked him if even his pigeons and his chickens were blooded, and if the
pigs were also of good descent. As she spoke she slightly accelerated
her pace.

Mr. Petter was very willing to walk faster, and to talk about all that
appertained to his beloved Squirrel Inn, and so they walked and talked
until they reached the garden and disappeared from view behind the tall
shrubbery that bordered the central path.

Mrs. Petter sat on a little Dutch porch, looking out on the lawn, and
her mind was troubled. She wished to talk to Mr. Petter, and here he was
strolling about in the moonlight with that young widow. Of course there
was nothing in it, and it was perfectly proper for him to be polite to
his guests, but there were lines in politeness as well as in other
things, and they ought to be drawn before people went off walking by
themselves in the garden at an hour when most farmers were thinking
about going to bed. The good lady sat very uneasily on her little bench.
The night air felt damp to her and disagreeable; she was sure there were
spiders and other things running about the porch floor, and there were
no rounds to the bench on which she could put her feet. But she could
not bear to go in, for she had not the least idea in the world where
they had gone to. Perhaps they might walk all the way to Lethbury, for
all she knew. At this moment a man came up to the porch. It was Lanigan
Beam, and his soul was troubled. The skilful Miss Mayberry had so
managed