Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, of course," she went on, sympathetically, "of course, you don't like to talk about it, but I'm sure you are not in the least to blame. It was shameful of Commeraw to go off the way he did. I am really sorry for you. Good-morning!"
A moment later, when she was well outside, a little laugh broke from her lips. It had been very well done—even better than she had meant to do it.
The new minister, a susceptible young man, meeting her at this moment, thought he had never seen his fair parishioner looking so charming.
Just after, he was equally struck by another face, framed in reddish-golden hair, which was gazing out from the milliner's window at the murky sky. Its set, hopeless expression startled him.
"What a remarkable face!" he reflected. "It is that girl whose voice I noticed the other evening." And, being a well-meaning young man, he mentally added, "I really must speak with her, next conference-meeting."
Summer passed tranquilly away, autumn ran its brief course; and in November, when the days were getting toward their shortest and dreariest, something happened which startled quiet Ridgemont out of the even tenor of its way. The small-pox broke out among the operatives in the paper-mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as to produce a universal panic. The streets were almost deserted; houses were darkened, as if by closed shutters one might shut out the fatal guest. Those who were compelled to go about, or whose social instinct overcame their fear, walked the streets with a subdued and stealthy air, as if on the lookout for an ambushed foe.
The village loafers were fewer in number, and their hilarity was forced and spasmodic. Jokes of a personal nature still circulated feebly, but seemed to have lost their point and savor, and the laughter which followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford was visibly depressed, and the sallies which his position as local humorist compelled him to utter were of a ghastly description. He still endeavored to enliven his labors with his favorite ditty, but it had lost perceptibly in force and spirit.
Mr. Doolittle, the post-master, bore himself with a dignified composure truly admirable, going fishing more persistently and smoking more incessantly than ever.