When she saw that Fanny had paused and was gazing at her doubtfully, her hand went out with a smile, wistful and timid and sincere, all at once.  There was something so appealing in the girl’s upturned face, an honesty of purpose so crystal-clear in her lovely eyes, that Fanny, still confused and uncertain whether to be happy or not, was irresistibly drawn to her.  She thought for a fleeting instant she would like to take Lydia Orr away to some dim secluded spot and there pour out her heart.  The next minute she was ready to laugh at herself for entertaining so absurd an idea.  She glanced down at Lydia’s ungloved hands, which Ellen Dix had just described, and reflected soberly that Wesley Elliot sat at table with those dainty pink-tipped fingers three times each day.  She had not answered Ellen’s foolish little questions; but now she felt sure that any man, possessed of his normal faculties, could hardly fail to become aware of Lydia Orr’s delicate beauty.

Fanny compelled herself to gaze with unprejudiced eyes at the fair transparent skin, with the warm color coming and going beneath it, at the masses of blond hair drawn softly back from the high round forehead, at the large blue eyes beneath the long sweep of darker lashes, at the exquisite curve of the lips and the firmly modeled chin.  Yes; Jim had seen truly; the ordinary adjective “pretty”—­applicable alike to a length of ribbon, a gown, or a girl of the commoner type—­could not be applied to Lydia Orr.  She was beautiful to the discerning eye, and Fanny unwillingly admitted it.

Lydia Orr, unabashed by the girl’s frank inspection, returned her gaze with beaming friendliness.

“Did you know I’d bought a house?” she asked.  “It’s old and needs a lot of repairing; so I was just asking Judge Fulsom—­”

“Deacon Amos Whittle is, so to say, a contractor,” said the Judge ponderously, “and so, in a way, am I.”

“A contractor?” puzzled Lydia.  “Yes; but I—­”

“If you’ll just give over everything into our hands connected with putting the old place into A-number-one shape, I think you’ll find you can dismiss the whole matter from your mind.  In two months’ time, my dear young lady, we’ll guarantee to pass the house over to you in apple-pie order, good as new, if not better....  Yes, indeed; better!”

The Judge eyed his empty saucer regretfully.

“That’s the best ice cream—­” he added with total irrelevance.  “Have some, won’t you?  I hear they’re passing it out free and permiscuous in the back room.”

“I think we should like some cream, if you please, Judge Fulsom,” said Lydia, “if you’ll keep us company.”

“Oh, I’ll keep company with you, as far as strawberry ice cream’s concerned,” chuckled the Judge, his big bulk shaking with humor.  “But I see Mis’ Fulsom over there; she’s got her weather eye on us.  Now, watch me skeedaddle for that cream!  Pink, white or brown, Miss Orr; or, all three mixed?  There’s a young fellow out there in charge of the freezers that sure is a wonder.  How about you, Fanny?”