His blue, near-sighted eyes rested approvingly upon Araminta.  “How the child grows!” he said, with a friendly smile upon his kindly old face.  “Soon we shall have a young lady on our hands.”

Araminta coloured and bent more closely to her sewing.

“I hope I’m not annoying you?” questioned the minister, after an interval.

“Not at all,” said Miss Mehitable, politely.

“I wanted to ask about some one,” pursued the Reverend Mr. Thorpe.  “It seems that there is a new tenant in the old house on the hill that has been empty for so long—­the one the village people say is haunted.  It seems a woman is living there, quite alone; and she always wears a veil, on account of some—­some disfigurement.”

Miss Hitty’s false teeth clicked, sharply, but there was no other sound except the clock, which, in the pause, struck four.  “I thought—­” continued the minister, with a rising inflection.

Hitherto, he had found his hostess of invaluable assistance in his parish work.  It had been necessary to mention only the name.  As upon the turning of a faucet a stream of information gushed forth from the fountain of her knowledge.  Age, date and place of birth, ancestry on both sides three generations back, with complete and illuminating biographical details of ancestry and individual; education, financial standing, manner of living, illnesses in the family, including dates and durations of said illnesses, accidents, if any, medical attendance, marriages, births, deaths, opinions, reverses, present locations and various careers of descendants, list of misfortunes, festivities, entertainments, church affiliation past and present, political leanings, and a vast amount of other personal data had been immediately forthcoming.  Tagged to it, like the postscript of a woman’s letter, was Miss Hitty’s own concise, permanent, neatly labelled opinion of the family or individual, the latter thrown in without extra charge.

“Perhaps you didn’t know,” remarked the minister, “that such a woman had come.”  His tone was inquiring.  It seemed to him that something must be wrong if she did not know.

“Minty,” said Miss Hitty, abruptly, “leave the room!”

Araminta rose, gathered up her patchwork, and went out, carefully closing the door.  It was only in moments of great tenderness that her aunt called her “Minty.”

The light footsteps died away upon the stairs.  Tactlessly, the minister persisted.  “Don’t you know?” he asked.

Miss Mehitable turned upon him.  “If I did,” she replied, hotly, “I wouldn’t tell any prying, gossiping man.  I never knew before it was part of a minister’s business to meddle in folks’ private affairs.  You’d better be writing your sermon and studyin’ up on hell.”

“I—­I—­” stammered the minister, taken wholly by surprise, “I only hoped to give her the consolation of the church.”

“Consolation nothing!” snorted Miss Hitty.  “Let her alone!” She went out of the room and slammed the door furiously, leaving the Reverend Austin Thorpe overcome with deep and lasting amazement.