“But Lyddy Orr ain’t dead, Mis’ Black,” protested Mrs. Daggett warmly.
“She might ’s well be, ’s fur ’s our seein’ her ’s concerned,” replied Mrs. Black. “She’s gone t’ Boston t’ stay f’r good, b’cause she couldn’t stan’ it no-how here in Brookville, after her pa was found dead. The’ was plenty o’ hard talk, b’fore an’ after; an’ when it come t’ breakin’ her windows with stones an’ hittin’ her in th’ head, so she was ’bleeged t’ have three stitches took, all I c’n say is I don’t wonder she went t’ Boston.... Anyway, that’s my wish an’ d’sire ’bout that cake.”
The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Elliot offered a welcome interruption to a scene which was becoming uncomfortably tense. Whatever prickings of conscience there might have been under the gay muslin and silks of her little audience, each woman privately resented the superior attitude assumed by Mrs. Solomon Black.
“Easy f’r her t’ talk,” murmured Mrs. Fulsom, from between puckered lips; “she didn’t lose no money off Andrew Bolton.”
“An’ she didn’t get none, neither, when it come t’ dividin’ up,” Mrs. Mixter reminded her.
“That’s so,” assented Mrs. Fulsom, as she followed in pretty Mrs. Mixter’s wake to greet the newly-married pair.
“My! ain’t you proud o’ her,” whispered Abby Daggett to Maria Dodge. “She’s a perfec’ pictur’ o’ joy, if ever I laid my eyes on one!”
Fanny stood beside her tall husband, her pretty face irradiating happiness. She felt a sincere pity welling up in her heart for Ellen Dix and Joyce Fulsom and the other girls. Compared with her own transcendent experiences, their lives seemed cold and bleak to Fanny. And all the while she was talking to the women who crowded about her.
“Yes; we are getting nicely settled, thank you, Mrs. Fulsom—all but the attic. Oh, how’d you do, Judge Fulsom?”
The big man wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead.