“That ain’t no sign I ain’t never goin’ to, Abby,” retorted Mr. Daggett with spirit.  “We been stuck right down in the mud here in Brookville since that dratted bank failed.  Nobody’s moved, except to the graveyard.  And here comes along a young woman with money ...  I’d like mighty well to know just how much she’s got an’ where it come from.  I asked the Judge, and he says, blamed if he knows....  But this ’ere young female spells op-per-tunity, Abby.  We got to take advantage of the situation, Abby, same as you do in blackberrying season:  pick ’em when they’re ripe; if you don’t, the birds and the bugs’ll get ’em.”

“It don’t sound right to me, papa,” murmured his wife, her kind face full of soft distress:  “Taking advantage of a poor young thing, like her, an’ all in mourning, too, fer a near friend.  She told Lois so ...  Dear, dear!”

Mr. Daggett had filled his morning pipe and was puffing energetically in his efforts to make it draw.

“I didn’t say take advantage of her,” he objected.  “That’s somethin’ I never done yet in my business, Abby.  Th’ Lord knows I don’t sand my sugar nor water my vinegar, the way some storekeepers do.  I’m all for ‘live an’ let live.’  What I says was—...  Now, you pay attention to me, Abby, and quit sniffling.  You’re a good woman; but you’re about as soft as that there butter! ...”

The article in question had melted to a yellow pool under the heat.  Mrs. Daggett gazed at it with wide blue eyes, like those of a child.

“Why, Henry,” she protested, “I never heerd you talk so before.”

“And likely you won’t again.  Now you listen, Abby; all I want, is to do what honest business I can with this young woman.  She’s bound to spend her money, and she’s kind of took to me; comes into th’ store after her mail, and hangs around and buys the greatest lot o’ stuff—­ ‘Land!’ I says to her:  ’a body’d think you was getting ready to get married.’”

“Well, now I shouldn’t wonder—­” began Mrs. Daggett eagerly.

“Don’t you get excited, Abby.  She says she ain’t; real pointed, too.  But about this wall paper; I don’t know as I can match up them stripes and figures.  I wisht you’d go an’ see her, Abby.  She’ll tell you all about it.  An’ her scheme about collecting all the old Bolton furniture is perfectly ridiculous.  ’Twouldn’t be worth shucks after kickin’ ’round folk’s houses here in Brookville for the last fifteen years or so.”

“But you can’t never find her at home, Henry,” said Mrs. Daggett.  “I been to see her lots of times; but Mis’ Solomon Black says she don’t stay in the house hardly long enough to eat her victuals.”

“Why don’t you take the buggy, Abby, and drive out to the old place?” suggested Mr. Daggett.  “Likely you’ll find her there.  She appears to take an interest in every nail that’s drove.  I can spare the horse this afternoon just as well as not.”

“’Twould be pleasant,” purred Mrs. Daggett.  “But, I suppose, by rights, I ought to take Lois along.”