Every one in town took an interest in the refurnishing.  The carpenters and painters who did not actually assist crossed the lawn to peer through the windows and exclaim, “Fine!  Looks swell!” Dave Dyer at the drug store, Harry Haydock and Raymie Wutherspoon at the Bon Ton, repeated daily, “How’s the good work coming?  I hear the house is getting to be real classy.”

Even Mrs. Bogart.

Mrs. Bogart lived across the alley from the rear of Carol’s house.  She was a widow, and a Prominent Baptist, and a Good Influence.  She had so painfully reared three sons to be Christian gentlemen that one of them had become an Omaha bartender, one a professor of Greek, and one, Cyrus N. Bogart, a boy of fourteen who was still at home, the most brazen member of the toughest gang in Boytown.

Mrs. Bogart was not the acid type of Good Influence.  She was the soft, damp, fat, sighing, indigestive, clinging, melancholy, depressingly hopeful kind.  There are in every large chicken-yard a number of old and indignant hens who resemble Mrs. Bogart, and when they are served at Sunday noon dinner, as fricasseed chicken with thick dumplings, they keep up the resemblance.

Carol had noted that Mrs. Bogart from her side window kept an eye upon the house.  The Kennicotts and Mrs. Bogart did not move in the same sets—­which meant precisely the same in Gopher Prairie as it did on Fifth Avenue or in Mayfair.  But the good widow came calling.

She wheezed in, sighed, gave Carol a pulpy hand, sighed, glanced sharply at the revelation of ankles as Carol crossed her legs, sighed, inspected the new blue chairs, smiled with a coy sighing sound, and gave voice: 

“I’ve wanted to call on you so long, dearie, you know we’re neighbors, but I thought I’d wait till you got settled, you must run in and see me, how much did that big chair cost?”

“Seventy-seven dollars!”

“Sev——­Sakes alive!  Well, I suppose it’s all right for them that can afford it, though I do sometimes think——­Of course as our pastor said once, at Baptist Church——­By the way, we haven’t seen you there yet, and of course your husband was raised up a Baptist, and I do hope he won’t drift away from the fold, of course we all know there isn’t anything, not cleverness or gifts of gold or anything, that can make up for humility and the inward grace and they can say what they want to about the P. E. church, but of course there’s no church that has more history or has stayed by the true principles of Christianity better than the Baptist Church and——­In what church were you raised, Mrs. Kennicott?”

“W-why, I went to Congregational, as a girl in Mankato, but my college was Universalist.”