“How should I know?”

Mrs. Whittle’s tone implied a jaded indifference to the doings of any one outside of her own immediate family circle.

“She’s going to have the Red-Fox piped down to the village,” said Mrs. Daggett.  “She’s had a man from Boston to look at it; and he says there’s water enough up there in the mountains to supply two or three towns the size of Brookville.  She’s going to have a reservoir:  and anybody that’s a mind to can pipe it right into their kitchens.”

Mrs. Whittle turned her veiled head to stare incredulously at her companion.

“Well, I declare!” she said; “that girl certainly does like to make a show of her money; don’t she?  If ’tain’t one thing it’s another.  How did a girl like her come by all that money, I’d like to know?”

“I don’t see as that’s any of our particular affairs,” objected Mrs. Daggett warmly.  “Think of havin’ nice cool spring water, just by turning a faucet.  We’re going to have it in our house.  And Henry says mebbe he’ll put in a tap and a drain-pipe upstairs.  It’d save a lot o’ steps.”

“Huh! like enough you’ll be talkin’ about a regular nickel-plated bathroom like hers, next,” suspicioned Mrs. Whittle.  “The Deacon says he did his best to talk her out of it; but she stuck right to it.  And one wa’n’t enough, at that.  She’s got three of ’em in that house.  That’s worse’n Andrew Bolton.”

“Do you mean worse, Ann Whittle, or do you mean better? A nice white bathtub is a means o’ grace, I think!”

“I mean what I said, Abby; and you hadn’t ought to talk like that.  It’s downright sinful. Means o’ grace! a bathtub! Well, I never!”

The ladies of the Aid Society were already convened in Mrs. Dix’s front parlor, a large square room, filled with the cool green light from a yard full of trees, whose deep-thrust roots defied the drought.  Ellen Dix had just brought in a glass pitcher, its frosted sides proclaiming its cool contents, when the late comers arrived.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dix was saying, “Miss Orr sent over a big piece of ice this morning and she squeezed out juice of I don’t know how many lemons.  Jim Dodge brought ’em here in the auto; and she told him to go around and gather up all the ladies that didn’t have conveyances of their own.”

“And that’s how I came to be here,” said Mrs. Mixter.  “Our horse has gone lame.”

“Well now, wa’n’t that lovely?” crowed Mrs. Daggett, cooling her flushed face with slow sweeps of the big turkey-feather fan Mrs. Dix handed her.  “Ain’t she just the sweetest girl—­always thinking of other folks!  I never see anything like her.”

A subtle expression of reserve crept over the faces of the attentive women.  Mrs. Mixter tasted the contents of her glass critically.

“I don’t know,” she said dryly, as if the lemonade had failed to cool her parched throat, “that depends on how you look at it.”