“Mebbe they could, Ann,” Mrs. Daggett said soothingly.  “It’s kind of hard to imagine a heathen wanting any sort of a petticoat this weather, and I guess they don’t wear ’em before they’re converted; but of course the missionaries try to teach ’em better.  They go forth, so to say, with the Bible in one hand and a petticoat in the other.”

“I should hope so!” said Mrs. Whittle, with vague fervor.

The sight of a toiling wagon supporting a huge barrel caused her to change the subject rather abruptly.

“That’s Jacob Merrill’s team,” she said, craning her neck.  “What on earth has he got in that hogs-head?”

“He’s headed for Lydia Orr’s spring, I shouldn’t wonder,” surmised Mrs. Daggett.  “She told Henry to put up a notice in the post office that folks could get all the water they wanted from her spring.  It’s running, same as usual; but, most everybody else’s has dried up.”

“I think the minister ought to pray for rain regular from the pulpit on Sunday,” Mrs. Whittle advanced.  “I’m going to tell him so.”

“She’s going to do a lot better than that,” said Mrs. Daggett....  “For the land sake, Dolly!  I ain’t urged you beyond your strength, and you know it; but if you don’t g’long—­”

A vigorous slap of the reins conveyed Mrs. Daggett’s unuttered threat to the reluctant animal, with the result that both ladies were suddenly jerked backward by an unlooked for burst of speed.

“I think that horse is dangerous, Abby,” remonstrated Mrs. Whittle, indignantly, as she settled her veil.  “You ought to be more careful how you speak up to him.”

“I’ll risk him!” said Mrs. Daggett with spirit.  “It don’t help him none to stop walking altogether and stand stock still in the middle of the road, like he was a graven image.  I’ll take the whip to him, if he don’t look out!”

Mrs. Whittle gathered her skirts about her, with an apprehensive glance at the dusty road.

“If you das’ to touch that whip, Abby Daggett,” said she, “I’ll git right out o’ this buggy and walk, so there!”

Mrs. Daggett’s broad bosom shook with merriment.

“Fer pity sake, Ann, don’t be scared,” she exhorted her friend.  “I ain’t never touched Dolly with the whip; but he knows I mean what I say when I speak to him like that! ...I started in to tell you about the Red-Fox Spring, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Whittle coughed dryly.

“I wish I had a drink of it right now,” she said.  “The idea of that Orr girl watering her flowers and grass, when everybody else in town is pretty near burnt up.  Why, we ain’t had water enough in our cistern to do the regular wash fer two weeks.  I said to Joe and the Deacon today:  ’You can wear them shirts another day, for I don’t know where on earth you’ll get clean ones.’”

“There ain’t nothing selfish about Lydia Orr,” proclaimed Mrs. Daggett joyfully.  “What do you think she’s going to do now?”