“I don’t see anything good anywhere outside The Village� declared Mrs. Walthall. “When my old man comes home and tells the cruel, wicked, dreadful, terrible things�—Mrs. Walthall’s language was broken out with adjectives like smallpox—“Will Blair reads in his paper—you feel as if the world was upside down and something mean and awful might even happen here!�
This was such a wild flight of fancy that every one laughed.
“Why, even during The War,� said Mrs. Spencer, “The War that we were in, bodies of all the men and hearts of all the women and children, even that, my dears, didn’t come to The Village, except the one raid from Sherman’s army marching north that awful April.�
“I am glad we are shut up here in this safe, quiet little corner,� said Mrs. Blair; “for, as Mrs. Walthall says, terrible things are happening. Not only factories and munition plants destroyed in the North, but railroad bridges and trestles right here in Virginia; a bridge near Norfolk, a bridge that trains with troops and supplies and munitions have to cross, was saturated with oil and set afire, by foreigners and negroes.� Her voice dropped.
“There is our bridge——� began Mrs. Walthall.
She was interrupted by a little indignant stir. Mrs. Osborne said crisply, “That bridge is just as safe as our own doorsteps.�
“They say,� Mrs. Walthall said, “that in New York poison has been put in Red Cross bandages and dressings. I declare, I feel like we ought to inspect our things and keep them locked up.�
“Nonsense, Anna!� exclaimed Mrs. Red Mayo. “Inspect things! And lock them up! Who ever locks up anything in The Village? Why, we never lock our outside doors, and in summer-time they stand wide open every night.�
“Strange and curious and terrible things are happening in other places,� said Mrs. Walthall.
“In other places,� Mrs. Osborne repeated, dryly and emphatically.