"Humbug!" cried Bevy. "You don't know anything about it!"
Bevy, of course, knew nothing about it either.
Almost bursting with curiosity, Bevy made her noodle soup. It was only because she was not a literary person that the delicious portions of dough which gave the soup its name were not cut into exclamation points and question marks. Bevy was suffering; when the squire brought David home with him, her uneasiness became distressing to see. Presently she was thrown into a state bordering on insanity.
David laid down his fork and looked across the table at her restless figure.
"Bevy," said he in an ordinary tone, "the communion set has been found."
All her speculations had arrived at no such wonderful conclusion as this. The squire looked startled; he had wondered how the report would first reach Millerstown.
"Did Koehler tell?" demanded Bevy. "Did he tell where he put it? Is it any good yet? Will they use it? Did you come to it by accident? Did—" Bevy's breath failed.
"Koehler had nothing to do with it," said David. "My father put it into the hole made by plastering up the window in the church. There it lay all these years."
"He never meant to take it!" screamed Bevy.