"She is Miss Crane, that is all I know."
"Has she a past?"
"Seeing that she is some twenty-five years of age, naturally."
"Yes, but——" Mrs. Darrow hesitated, not quite knowing how to put it. "Well, as you seem to think, she is not bad-looking, and there is John, you know, and Gerald."
"Well?"
"They may fall in love with her."
"What—both of them? At all events they have not seen her yet, so suppose we postpone discussion of that contingency?"
"Well!" Mrs. Darrow's expression and gestures spoke volumes, "I warn you; don't say I haven't warned you. Mark me, there is something queer about Miss Crane. I am not a suspicious woman, and I like to think well of everybody; but Miss Crane—well, you take my word for it, she'll astonish us all some day! Queer, yes, I should think she was queer!"
Barton shrugged his shoulders, and went off without making reply, and for the moment Mrs. Darrow was baffled. But she still continued to suspect Miriam—Heaven only knows of what—and to keep a close watch on her every action. It gave quite a new zest to her life, this new pursuit. And shortly all the parish, that is, the female portion of it, was in Mrs. Darrow's confidence; and Miriam was watched not alone by one, but by a hundred envious eyes, and debated about at a dozen tea-tables. But all this espionage resulted in nothing, and the suspect went serenely on her way, as did Una through the Forest of a Thousand Dangers. The toads spat venom, but the snakes could not bite.
"Dicky," said Miss Crane one warm and sunny morning, "I want you to put on your cap and take me up the village."