“That ain’t decided,” snapped Mrs. Black.  “She could do better than to buy that tumble-down old shack.”

“So she could; so she could,” soothed the postmaster.  “But it’s going to be a good thing for the creditors, if she can swing it.  Let me see, you wa’n’t a loser in the Bolton Bank; was you, Mis’ Black?”

“No; I wa’n’t; my late departed husband had too much horse-sense.”

And having thus impugned less fortunate persons, Mrs. Solomon Black departed, a little stiffer as to her back-bone than when she entered.  She had imparted information; she had also acquired it.  When she had returned rather later than usual from selling her strawberries in Grenoble she had hurried her vegetables on to boil and set the table for dinner.  She could hear the minister pacing up and down his room in the restless way which Mrs. Black secretly resented, since it would necessitate changing the side breadths of matting to the middle of the floor long before this should be done.  But of Lydia Orr there was no sign.  The minister came promptly down stairs at sound of the belated dinner-bell.  But to Mrs. Black’s voluble explanations for the unwonted hour he returned the briefest of perfunctory replies.  He seemed hungry and ate heartily of the cold boiled beef and vegetables.

“Did you see anything of her this morning?” asked Mrs. Black pointedly, as she cut the dried-apple pie.  “I can’t think what’s become of her.”

Wesley Elliot glanced up from an absent-minded contemplation of an egg spot on the tablecloth.

“If you refer to Miss Orr,” said he, “I did see her—­in a carriage with Deacon Whittle.”

He was instantly ashamed of the innocent prevarication.  But he told himself he did not choose to discuss Miss Orr’s affairs with Mrs. Black.

Just then Lydia came in, her eyes shining, her cheeks very pink; but like the minister she seemed disposed to silence, and Mrs. Black was forced to restrain her curiosity.

“How’d you make out this morning?” she inquired, as Lydia, having hurried through her dinner, rose to leave the table.

“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Black,” said the girl brightly.  Then she went at once to her room and closed the door.

At supper time it was just the same; neither the minister nor the girl who sat opposite him had anything to say.  But no sooner had Mrs. Black begun to clear away the dishes than the two withdrew to the vine-shaded porch, as if by common consent.

“She ought to know right off about Fanny Dodge and the minister,” Mrs. Black told herself.

She was still revolving this in her mind as she walked sedately along the street, the red and yellow striped bag clasped tightly in both hands.  Of course everybody in the village would suppose she knew all about Lydia Orr.  But the fact was she knew very little.  The week before, one of her customers in Grenoble, in the course of a business transaction which involved a pair of chickens, a dozen eggs and two boxes of strawberries, had asked, in a casual way, if Mrs. Black knew any one in Brookville who kept boarders.