“Well, yes; I wrote once when he was first taken sick.”
“An' he didn't take any notice of it?”
Mrs. Field shook her head.
“He's a regular old skinflint, ain't he?” said Mrs. Babcock.
“I guess he's a pretty set kind of a man.”
“Set! I should call it more'n set. Now, Mis' Field, I'd really like to know something. I ain't curious, but I've heard so many stories about it that I'd really like to know the truth of it once. Somebody was speakin' about it the other day, an' it don't seem right for stories to be goin' the rounds when there ain't no truth in 'em. Mis' Field, what was it set Edward Maxwell's father agin' him?” Mrs. Babcock's voice sank to a whisper, she leaned farther forward, and gazed at Mrs. Field with crafty sweetness.
Mrs. Field looked out of the window.
“Well, I s'pose it was some trouble about money matters.”
“Money matters?”
“Yes, I s'pose so.”