Mrs. Whittle gave vent to a cackle of rather discordant laughter.

“That’s just what I was telling Abby on the way over,” she said.  “Once in a while you do run across a person that’s bound to make a show of their money.”

Mrs. Solomon Black, in a green and white sprigged muslin dress, her water-waves unusually crisp and conspicuous, bit off a length of thread with a meditative air.

“Well,” said she, “that girl lived in my house, off an’ on, for more than two months.  I can’t say as I think she’s the kind that wants to show off.”

Fifteen needles paused in their busy activities, and twice as many eyes were focused upon Mrs. Solomon Black.  That lady sustained the combined attack with studied calm.  She even smiled, as she jerked her thread smartly through a breadth of red flannel.

“I s’pose you knew a lot more about her in the beginning than we did,” said Mrs. Dodge, in a slightly offended tone.

“You must have known something about her, Phoebe,” put in Mrs. Fulsom.  “I don’t care what anybody says to the contrary, there’s something queer in a young girl, like her, coming to a strange place, like Brookville, and doing all the things she’s done.  It ain’t natural:  and that’s what I told the Judge when he was considering the new waterworks.  There’s a great deal of money to be made on waterworks, the Judge says.”

The eyes were now focused upon Mrs. Fulsom.

“Well, I can tell you, she ain’t looking to make money out of Brookville,” said Abby Daggett, laying down her fan and taking an unfinished red flannel petticoat from the basket on the table.  “Henry knows all about her plans, and he says it’s the grandest idea!  The water’s going to be piped down from the mountain right to our doors—­an’ it’ll be just as free as the Water of Life to anybody that’ll take it.”

“Yes; but who’s going to pay for digging up the streets and putting ’em back?” piped up an anxious voice from a corner.

“We’d ought to, if she does the rest,” said Mrs. Daggett; “but Henry says—­”

“You can be mighty sure there’s a come-back in it somewhere,” was Mrs. Whittle’s opinion.  “The Deacon says he don’t know whether to vote for it or not.  We’ll have rain before long; and these droughts don’t come every summer.”

Ellen Dix and Fanny Dodge were sitting outside on the porch.  Both girls were sewing heart-shaped pieces of white cloth upon squares of turkey-red calico.

“Isn’t it funny nobody seems to like her?” murmured Ellen, tossing her head.  “I shouldn’t be surprised if they wouldn’t let her bring the water in, for all she says she’ll pay for everything except putting it in the houses.”

Fanny gazed at the white heart in the middle of the red square.

“It’s awfully hard to sew these hearts on without puckering,” she said.

“Fan,” said Ellen cautiously, “does the minister go there much now?”