“You don’t say!” exclaimed Mr. Daggett. “So she come from Boston, did she? I thought she seemed kind of—”
“I don’t know as there’s any secret about where she come from,” returned Mrs. Black aggressively. “I never s’posed there was. Folks ain’t had time to git acquainted with her yit.”
“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Daggett, as if the idea was a new and valuable one. “Yes, ma’am; you’re right! we ain’t none of us had time to git acquainted.”
He beamed cordially upon Mrs. Black over the tops of his spectacles. “Looks like we’re going to git a chance to know her,” he went on. “It seems the young woman has made up her mind to settle amongst us. Yes, ma’am; we’ve been hearing she’s on the point of buying property and settling right down here in Brookville.”
An excited buzz of comment in the front of the store broke in upon this confidential conversation. Mrs. Black appeared to become aware for the first time of the score of masculine eyes fixed upon her.
“Ain’t you got any of the Golden Rule?” she demanded sharply. “That looks like it to me—over in behind them cans of tomatoes. It’s got a blue label.”
“Why, yes; here ’tis, sure enough,” admitted Mr. Daggett. “I guess I must be losing my eyesight.... It’s going to be quite a chore to fix up the old Bolton house,” he added, as he inserted the blue labeled can of reputation in a red and yellow striped paper bag.
“That ain’t decided,” snapped Mrs. Black. “She could do better than to buy that tumble-down old shack.”
“So she could; so she could,” soothed the postmaster. “But it’s going to be a good thing for the creditors, if she can swing it. Let me see, you wa’n’t a loser in the Bolton Bank; was you, Mis’ Black?”
“No; I wa’n’t; my late departed husband had too much horse-sense.”