"Why, that's the young one! Didn't you know? That's more of Myron Holder's slyness. But pshaw! What's the use of talking? Them kind's all alike. But fancy naming it after herself! Well, as I said, old Mrs. Holder, she wanted you should come up to see her and make a trade. Now, I hope you'll go, Mr. Muir, being as I specially siggested t' her that you could help her out."
"I'll go, Mrs. Deans; I'll go," said Mr. Muir. "Think I'll just slip up by White's and see the lot first; nigh-hand to Warner's, ain't it?"
"Yes, nigh close to old man Warner's, which was filled when Ann Eliza was buried. Mr. White did say that Ann Eliza overlapped his lot. But there! it doesn't do to say them things; it ain't me to spread talk. She had a queer look, though, Ann Eliza did when she was laid out, hadn't she, Mr. Muir?" Here Mrs. Deans nodded with much sinister meaning at Mr. Muir.
"Yes, a very wretched-looking body she made. I like to see a cheerful-looking corpse; something more after the style of Jed Holder. Now, when he was ready, he was a real credit to me, though his pay was onsatisfactory—very onsatisfactory."
"Yes, Jed did smooth out most wonderful," agreed Mrs. Deans. "Then you'll go up to Mrs. Holder's? Better go soon, Mr. Muir; old Warner'll be after more lots some of these days."
"Yes, without a doubt, Mrs. Deans," said Mr. Muir. Mrs. Deans pulled the door open, again the harsh bell rang, and she heard its dying tinkle through Mr. Muir's farewells, for he came outside the door with her, and after she betook herself down the street, he still lingered, gloating critically over the arrangement of the coffin-plates in his window.
Mrs. Deans proceeded down the street, and soon reached the store. As she paused at the store door, she looked back and saw the undertaker just entering his shop.
"He'll never handle any job for me," Mrs. Deans said, recalling the rudeness of his interruption during their conversation. "I'll get Foster from Ovid for Henry."
She entered the store, purchased her dyestuffs quickly, and then, all business cares off her mind, set her face steadfastly to go to Mrs. Wilson's.
Now, Mrs. Deans was extremely eager to find out if Mrs. Wilson's anxiety about the naming of Myron Holder's child sprang from any knowledge or suspicion of the boy's parentage. As she trod heavily along the sandy footpath to the Wilson farm, she turned the matter over in her mind and considered the best means of getting at the truth, or at least all Mrs. Wilson knew of it. Gossip is something more, perhaps, than a vulgar propensity—there is art in it, as in everything else. There are several ways of inducing others to talk freely of their affairs. Mrs. Deans thoroughly appreciated the distinctions between the methods. One way which Mrs. Deans had found very effective in some cases is to assume high ground; treat the discussion with the careless condescension of one to whom it is an old story; acknowledge every tid-bit of information with a nod signifying thorough acquaintance with the whole matter; the victim, oftentimes irritated by your show of superior knowledge, goes on supplying detail after detail, in the hope of startling you out of your apathy. This plan has however, as Mrs. Deans knew, been known to miss fire, and when it fails, it fails completely. She hesitated to try it with Mrs. Wilson.