And here, unwittingly, Jim’s blind conjectures followed those of Wesley Elliot.  He had told Lydia Orr he meant to call upon her.  That he had not yet accomplished his purpose had been due to the watchfulness of Mrs. Solomon Black.  On the two occasions when he had rung Mrs. Black’s front door-bell, that lady herself had appeared in response to its summons.  On both occasions she had informed Mr. Dodge tartly that Miss Orr wasn’t at home.

On the occasion of his second disappointment he had offered to await the young lady’s home-coming.

“There ain’t no use of that, Jim,” Mrs. Black had assured him.  “Miss Orr’s gone t’ Boston to stay two days.”

Then she had unlatched her close-shut lips to add:  “She goes there frequent, on business.”

Her eyes appeared to inform him further that Miss Orr’s business, of whatever nature, was none of his business and never would be.

“That old girl is down on me for some reason or other,” he told himself ruefully, as he walked away for the second time.  But he was none the less resolved to pursue his hopefully nascent friendship with Lydia Orr.

He was thinking of her vaguely as he walked toward the house which had been his father’s, and where he and Fanny had been born.  It was little and low and old, as he viewed it indifferently in the fading light of the sunset sky.  Its walls had needed painting so long, that for years nobody had even mentioned the subject.  Its picturesquely mossy roof leaked.  But a leaky roof was a commonplace in Brookville.  It was customary to set rusty tin pans, their holes stopped with rags, under such spots as actually let in water; the emptying of the pans being a regular household “chore.”  Somehow, he found himself disliking to enter; his mother and Fanny would still be talking about the disposition of Lydia Orr’s money.  To his relief he found his sister alone in the kitchen, which served as a general living room.  The small square table neatly spread for two stood against the wall; Fanny was standing by the window, her face close to the pane, and apparently intent upon the prospect without, which comprised a grassy stretch of yard flanked by a dull rampart of over-grown lilac bushes.

“Where’s mother?” inquired Jim, as he hung his hat on the accustomed nail.

“She went down to the village,” said Fanny, turning her back on the window with suspicious haste.  “There was a meeting of the sewing society at Mrs. Daggett’s.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Jim.  “What an opportunity!”

“Opportunity?” echoed Fanny vaguely.

“Yes; for talking it over.  Can’t you imagine the clack of tongues; the ‘I says to her,’ and ‘she told me,’ and ’what do you think!’”

“Don’t be sarcastic and disagreeable, Jim,” advised Fanny, with some heat.  “When you think of it, it is a wonder—­that girl coming here the way she did; buying out the fair, just as everybody was discouraged over it.  And now—­”