“Was this difference of opinion on the calling he should pursue, the cause of Oliver’s leaving home in the way he did?” continued Deborah, conscious of walking on very thin ice.

But Miss Weeks rather welcomed than resented this curiosity.  Indeed she was never tired of enlarging upon the Ostranders.  It was, therefore, with a very encouraging alacrity she responded: 

“I have never thought so.  The judge would not quarrel with Oliver on so small a point as that.  My idea is, though I never talk of it much, that they had a great quarrel over Mr. Etheridge.  Oliver never liked the old student; I’ve watched them and I’ve seen.  He hated his coming to the house so much; he hated the way his father singled him out and deferred to him and made him the confidant of all his troubles.  When they went on their walks, Oliver always hung back, and more than once I have seen him make a grimace of distaste when his father urged him forward.  He was only a boy, I know, but his dislikes meant something, and if it ever happened that he spoke out his whole mind, you may be sure that some very bitter words passed.”

Was this meant as an innuendo?  Could it be that she shared the very serious doubts of Deborah’s anonymous correspondent?

Impossible to tell.  Such nervous, fussy little bodies often possess minds of unexpected subtlety.  Deborah gave up all hope of understanding her, and, accepting her statements at their face value, effusively remarked: 

“You must have a very superior mind to draw such conclusions from the little you have seen.  I have heard many explanations given for the breach you name, but never any so reasonable.”

A flash from the spinster’s wary eye, then a burst of courage and the quick retort: 

“And what explanation does Oliver himself give?  You ought to know, Mrs. Scoville.”

The attack was as sudden as it was unexpected.  Deborah flushed and trimmed her sails for this new tack, and insinuating gently, “Then you have heard—­” waited for the enlightenment these words were likely to evoke.

It came quickly enough.

“That he expected to marry your daughter?  Oh, yes, Mrs. Scoville; it’s the common talk here now.  I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.”

Deborah’s head went up.  She faced the other fairly, with the look born of mother passion, and mother passion only.

“Reuther is blameless in this matter,” she protested.  “She was brought up in ignorance of what I felt sure would prove a handicap and misery to her.  She loves Oliver as she will never love any other man, but when she was told her real name and understood fully what that name carries with it, she declined to saddle him with her shame.  That’s her story, Miss Weeks; one that hardly fits her appearance which is very delicate.  And, let me add, having once accepted her father’s name, she refuses to be known by any other.  I have brought her to Shelby where to our own surprise and Reuther’s great happiness, we have been taken in by Judge Ostrander, an act of kindness for which we are very grateful.”  Miss Weeks got up, took down one of her rarest treasures from an old etagere standing in one corner and laid it in Mrs. Scoville’s hand.