“Some of us ladies was talkin’ it over,” pursued the spinster relentlessly, “an’ I says t’ Mis’ Deacon Whittle:  ‘Who counted th’ money ‘at was found on Andrew Bolton’s body?’ I says.  ‘W’y,’ s’ she, ‘th’ ones ‘at found him out in th’ woods where he got lost, I s’pose.’  But come t’ sift it right down t’ facts, not one o’ them ladies c’d tell f’r certain who ’t was ‘at found that body.  The’ was such an’ excitement ‘n’ hullaballoo, nobody ‘d thought t’ ask.  It wa’n’t Deacon Whittle; n’r it wa’n’t th’ party from th’ Brookville House; ner Hank Simonson, ner any o’ the boys. It was Jim Dodge, an’ she was with him!"

“Well,” said Fanny faintly.

She looked up to meet the minister’s eyes, with a sense of strong relief.  Wesley was so wise and good.  Wesley would know just what to say to this prying woman.

“What are you and Miss Daggett talking about so earnestly?” asked the minister.

When informed of the question under discussion, he frowned thoughtfully.

“My dear Miss Daggett,” he said, “if you will fetch me the dinner bell from Mrs. Whittle’s kitchen, I shall be happy to answer your question and others like it which have reached me from time to time concerning this unhappy affair.”

“Mis’ Deacon Whittle’s dinner bell?” gasped Lois Daggett.  “What’s that got t’ do with—­”

“Bring it to me, and you’ll see,” smiled the minister imperturbably.

“What are you going to do, Wesley?” whispered Fanny.

He gazed gravely down into her lovely eyes.

"Dearest," he whispered back, “trust me!  It is time we laid this uneasy ghost; don’t you think so?”

By now the large room was well filled with men, women and children.  The ice cream was being passed around when suddenly the clanging sound of a dinner bell, vigorously operated by Joe Whittle, arrested attention.

“The minister’s got something to say!  The minister’s got something to say!” shouted the boy.

Wesley Elliot, standing apart, lifted his hand in token of silence, then he spoke: 

“I have taken this somewhat unusual method of asking your attention to a matter which has for many years past enlisted your sympathies,” he began:  “I refer to the Bolton affair.”

The sound of breath sharply indrawn and the stir of many feet died into profound silence as the minister went on, slowly and with frequent pauses: 

“Most of you are already familiar with the sordid details.  It is not necessary for me to go back to the day, now nearly nineteen years ago, when many of you found yourselves unexpectedly impoverished because the man you trusted had defaulted....  There was much suffering in Brookville that winter, and since....  When I came to this parish I found it—­sick.  Because of the crime of Andrew Bolton?  No.  I repeat the word with emphasis:  No! Brookville was sick, despondent, dull, gloomy and impoverished—­not because of Andrew