Miss Butterworth, hearing occasionally through Jim of the progress of affairs at Number Nine, began to think it about time to make known her secret among her friends.  Already they had begun to suspect that the little tailoress had a secret, out of which would grow a change in her life.  She had made some astonishing purchases at the village shops, which had been faithfully reported.  She was working early and late in her little room.  She was, in the new prosperity of the villagers, collecting her trifling dues.  She had given notice of the recall of her modest loans.  There were many indications that she was preparing to leave the town.

“Now, really,” said Mrs. Snow to her one evening, when Miss Butterworth was illuminating the parsonage by her presence—­“now, really, you must tell us all about it.  I’m dying to know.”

“Oh, it’s too ridiculous for anything,” said Miss Butterworth, laughing herself almost into hysterics.

“Now, what, Keziah?  What’s too ridiculous?  You are the most provoking person!”

“The idea of my getting married!”

Mrs. Snow jumped up and seized Miss Butterworth’s hands, and said: 

“Why, Keziah Butterworth!  You don’t tell me!  You wicked, deceitful creature!”

The three Misses Snow all jumped up with their mother, and pressed around the merry object of their earnest congratulations.

“So unexpected and strange, you know,” said the oldest.

“So very unexpected!” said the second.

“And so very strange, too!” echoed Number Three.

“Well, it is too ridiculous for anything,” Miss Butterworth repeated.  “The idea of my living to be an old maid, and, what’s more, making up my mind to it, and then”—­and then Miss Butterworth plunged into a new fit of merriment.

“Well, Keziah, I hope you’ll be very happy.  Indeed I do,” said Mrs. Snow, becoming motherly.

“Happy all your life,” said Miss Snow.

“Very happy,” said Number Two.

“All your life long,” rounded up the complement of good wishes from the lips of the youngest of the trio.

“Well, I’m very much obliged to you—­to you all “—­said Miss Butterworth, wiping her eyes; “but it certainly is the most ridiculous thing.  I say to myself sometimes:  ’Keziah Butterworth!  You little old fool!  What are you going to do with that man?  How are you going to live with him?’ Goodness knows that I’ve racked my brain over it until I’m just about crazy.  Don’t mention it, but I believe I’ll use him for a watch-dog—­tie him up daytimes, and let him out nights, you know!”

“Why, isn’t he nice?” inquired Mrs. Snow.

“Nice!  He’s as rough as a hemlock tree.”

“What do you marry him for?” inquired Mrs. Snow in astonishment.

“I’m sure I don’t know.  I’ve asked myself the question a thousand times.”

“Don’t you want to marry him?”