After Jim Dodge had taken his mother and sister home, he stole off by himself for a solitary walk. The night was wonderful, and the young man, who was in a whirl of undefined emotion, unconsciously felt the need of a lesson of eternal peace. The advent of the strange girl, and her unprecedented conduct had caused in him a sort of masculine vertigo over the whole situation. Why in the name of common sense was that girl in Brookville, and why should she have done such a thing? He admired her; he was angry with her; he was puzzled by her.

He did not like the minister. He did not wonder that Elliot should wish for emolument enough to pay his way, but he had a little contempt for him, for his assumption of such superior wisdom that he could teach his fellow men spiritual knowledge and claim from them financial reward. Aside from keeping those he loved in comfort, Jim had no wish for money. He had all the beauty of nature for the taking. He listened, as he strolled along, to the mysterious high notes of insects and night-birds; he saw the lovely shadows of the trees, and he honestly wondered within himself why Brookville people considered themselves so wronged by an occurrence of years ago, for which the perpetrator had paid so dearly. At the same time he experienced a sense of angry humiliation at the poverty of the place which had caused such an occurrence as that church fair.

When he reached Mrs. Solomon Black's house, he stared up at its glossy whiteness, reflecting the moonlight like something infinitely more precious than paint, and he seemed to perceive again a delicate, elusive fragrance which he had noticed about the girl's raiment when she thanked him for his fox skin.

“She smelled like a new kind of flower,” Jim told himself as he swung down the road. The expression was not elegant, but it was sincere. He thought of the girl as he might have thought of an entirely new species of blossom, with a strictly individual fragrance which he had encountered in an expedition afield.

After he had left the Black house, there was only a half mile before he reached the old Andrew Bolton place. The house had been very pretentious in an ugly architectural period. There were truncated towers, a mansard roof, hideous dormers, and a reckless outbreak of perfectly useless bay windows. The house, which was large, stood aloof from the road, with a small plantation of evergreen trees before it. It had not been painted for years, and loomed up like the vaguest shadow of a dwelling even in the brilliant moonlight. Suddenly Jim caught sight of a tiny swinging gleam of light. It bobbed along at the height of a man's knee. It was a lantern, which seemed rather an odd article to be used on such a night. Then Jim came face to face with the man who carried the lantern, and saw who he was—Deacon Amos Whittle. To Jim's mind, the man resembled a fox, skulking along the road, although Deacon Amos Whittle was not predatory. He was a small, thin, wiry man with a queer swirl of white whisker, and hopping gait.

He seemed somewhat blinded by his lantern, for he ran full tilt into Jim, who stood the shock with such firmness that the older man staggered back, and danced uncertainly to recover his balance. Deacon Amos Whittle stuttered uncertain remarks, as was his wont when startled. “It is only Jim Dodge,” said Jim. “Guess your lantern sort of blinded you, Deacon.”

Then the lantern almost blinded Jim, for Whittle swung it higher until it came on a level with Jim's eyes. Over it peered Whittle's little keen ones, spectacled under a gray shag of eyebrows. “Oh it is you!” said the man with a somewhat contemptuous accent. He held Jim in slight esteem.

Jim laughed lightly. Unless he cared for people, their opinion of him always seemed a perfectly negligible matter, and he did not care at all for Amos Whittle.

Suddenly, to his amazement, Amos took hold of his coat. “Look a' here, Jim,” said he.

“Well?”

“Do you know anything about that strange woman that's boardin' to Mis' Solomon Black's?”

“How in creation should I know anything about her?”

“Hev you seen her?”

“I saw her at the fair tonight.”

“The fair at my house?”

“Don't know of any other fair.”

“Well, what do you think of her?”

“Don't think of her.”

Jim tried to pass, but the old man danced before him with his swinging lantern.

“I must be going along,” said Jim.

“Wait a minute. Do you know she bought the whole fair?”

“Yes, I do. You are blinding me with that lantern, Deacon Whittle.”

“And she paid good money down. I seen it.”

“All right. I've got to get past you.”

“Wait a minute. Do you s'pose that young woman is all right?”

“I don't see why not. Nothing against the law of the land for her to buy out a church fair, that I know of.”

“Don't you think it looks sort of suspicious?”

“It's none of my business. I confess I don't see why it's suspicious, unless somebody wants to make her out a fool. I don't understand what any sane person wants with all that truck; but I don't pretend to understand women.”

Whittle shook his head slowly. “I dunno,” he said.

“Well, I don't know who does, or cares either. They've got the money. I suppose that was what they were after.” Jim again tried to pass.

“Wait just a minute. Say, Jim, I'm going to tell you something. Don't you speak of it till it gets out.”

“Fire away. I'm in a hurry.”

“She wants to buy this old Bolton place here.”

Jim whistled.

“You know the assignees of the Bolton estate had to take the house, and it's been running down all these years, and a lot of money has got to be spent on it or it'll tumble down. Now, this young woman has offered to pay a good round sum for it, and take it just as it is. S'pose it's all right?”

“How in creation should I know? If I held it, and wanted to sell it, I'd know darn well whether it was all right or not. I wouldn't go around asking other folks.”

“But you see it don't seem natural. Folks don't do things like that. She's offering to pay more than the place is worth. She'll have to spend thousands on it to make it fit to live in. She says she'll pay cash, too.”

“Well, I suppose you'll know cash when you see it. I've got to go.”

“But cash! Lord A'mighty! We dunno what to do.”

“I suppose you know whether you want to sell or not.”

“Want to sell! If we didn't want to sell this old shebang we'd be dumb idiots.”

“Then, why in the name of common sense don't you sell?”

“Because, somehow it don't look natural to me.”

“Well, I must confess that to throw away much money on an old shell like that doesn't look any too natural to me.”

“Come now, Jim, that was a real nice house when it was built.”

Jim laughed sarcastically. “Running up your wares now, are you?”

“That house cost Andrew Bolton a pile of money. And now, if it's fixed up, it'll be the best house in Brookville.”

“That isn't saying much. See here, you've got to let me pass. If you want to sell—I should think you would—I don't see what you are worrying about. I don't suppose you are worrying for fear you may cheat the girl.”

“We ain't goin' to cheat the girl, but—I dunno.” Whittle stood aside, shaking his head, and Jim passed on. He loitered along the shaggy hedge which bordered the old Bolton estate, and a little farther, then turned back. He had reached the house again when he started. In front of the gate stood a shadowy figure, a woman, by the outlines of the dress. Jim continued hesitatingly. He feared to startle her. But he did not. When he came abreast of her, she turned and looked full in his face, and he recognized Miss Orr. He took off his hat, but was so astonished he could scarcely utter a greeting. The girl was so shy that she stammered a little, but she laughed too, like a child caught in some mischief.

“Oh, I am so glad it is you!” she said.

“Well, taking all things into consideration, so am I,” said Jim.

“You mean—?”

“I mean it is pretty late for you to be out alone, and I'm as good as a Sunday School picnic, with the superintendent and the minister thrown in, for you to meet. I'll see you home.”

“Goodness! There's nothing to be afraid of in this little place,” said the girl. “I have lived in New York.”

“Where there are policemen.”

“Oh, yes, but one never counts on that. One never counts on anything in New York. You can't, you know. Its mathematics are as high as its buildings, too high to take chances. But here—why, I saw pretty near the whole village at that funny fair, didn't I?”

“Well, yes, but Brookville is not a walled town. People not so desirable as those you saw at the fair have free entrance and egress. It is pretty late.”

“I am not in the least afraid,” said the girl.

“You have no reason to be, now.”

“You mean because you have happened along. Well, I am glad you did. I begun to think it was rather late myself for me to be prowling around, but you will simply have to leave me before I get to my boarding house. That Mrs. Black is as kind as can be, but she doesn't know what to make of me, and on the whole I think I would rather take my chances stealing in alone than to have her spy you.”

“If you wanted to come out, why didn't you ask the minister to come with you?” Jim asked bluntly.

“The minister! Oh, I don't like ministers when they are young. They are much better when all the doctrines they have learned at their theological seminaries have settled in their minds, and have stopped bubbling. However, this minister here seems rather nice, very young, but he doesn't give the impression of taking himself so seriously that he is a nervous wreck on account of his convictions. I wouldn't have asked him for the world. In the first place, Mrs. Black would have thought it very queer, and in the second place he was so hopping mad about that fair, and having me buy it, that he wouldn't have been agreeable. I don't blame him. I would feel just so in his place. It must be frightful to be a poor minister.”

“None too pleasant, anyway.”

“You are right, it certainly is not. I have been poor myself, and I know. I went to my room, and looked out of the window, and it was so perfectly beautiful outdoors, and I did want to see how this place looked by moonlight, so I just went down the back stairs and came alone. I hope nobody will break in while I am gone. I left the door unlocked.”

“No burglars live in Brookville,” said Jim. “Mighty good reasons for none to come in, too.”

“What reasons?”

“Not a blessed thing to burgle. Never has been for years.”

There was a silence. The girl spoke in a hushed voice. “I—understand,” said she, “that the people here hold the man who used to live in this house responsible for that.”

“Why, yes, I suppose he was. Brookville never would have been a Tuxedo under any circumstances, but I reckon it would have fared a little better if Mr. Bolton hadn't failed to see the difference between mine and thine. I was nothing but a kid, but I have heard a good deal about it. Some of the older people are pretty bitter, and some of the younger ones have it in their veins. I suppose the poor man did start us down hill.”

“You say ‘poor man’; why?” asked the girl and her voice trembled.

“Lord, yes. I'm like a hound sneaking round back doors for bones, on account of Mr. Bolton, myself. My father lost more than 'most anybody, but I wouldn't change places with the man. Say, do you know he has been in State's Prison for years?”

“Yes.”

“Of course any man who does wrong is a poor man, even if he doesn't get caught. I'm mighty glad I wasn't born bitter as some of the people here were. My sister Fanny isn't either. She doesn't have much, poor girl, but I've never heard her say one word, and mother never blames it on Mr. Bolton, either. Mother says he is getting his punishment, and it isn't for any of us to add to it.”

“Your sister was that pretty girl at the flower table?”

“Yes—I suppose you would call her pretty. I don't really know. A fellow never does know, when the girl is his sister. She may look the best of the bunch to him, but he's never sure.”

“She is lovely,” said Lydia Orr. She pointed to the shadowy house. “That must have been a nice place once.”

“Best in the village; show place. Say, what in the name of common sense do you want to buy it for?”

“Who told you?”

“Oh, I met old Whittle just before I met you. He told me. The place must be terribly run down. It will cost a mint of money to get it in shape.”

“I have considerable money,” stated the girl quite simply.

“Well, it's none of my business, but you will have to sink considerable in that place, and perhaps when you are through it won't be satisfactory.”

“I have taken a notion to it,” said the girl. She spoke very shyly. Her curiously timid, almost apologetic manner returned suddenly. “I suppose it does look strange,” she added.

“Nobody's business how it looks,” said Jim, “but I think you ought to know the truth about it, and I think I am more likely to give you information than Whittle. Of course he has an ax to grind. Perhaps if I had an ax to grind, you couldn't trust me.”

“Yes, I could,” returned the girl with conviction. “I knew that the minute I looked at you. I always know the people I can trust. I know I could not trust Deacon Whittle. I made allowances, the way one does for a clock that runs too fast or too slow. I think one always has to be doing addition or subtraction with people, to understand them.”

“Well, you had better try a little subtraction with me.”

“I don't have to. I didn't mean with everybody. Of course there are exceptions. That was a beautiful skin you gave me. I didn't half thank you.”

“Nonsense. I was glad to give it.”

“Do you hunt much?”

“About all I am good for except to run our little farm and do odd jobs. I used to work in the chair factory.”

“I shouldn't think you would have liked that.”

“Didn't; had to do what I could.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Oh, I don't know. I never had any choice, so I never gave it any thought. Something that would keep me out of doors, I reckon.”

“Do you know much about plants and trees?”

“I don't know whether I know much; I love them, that's all.”

“You could do some landscape gardening for a place like this, I should think.”

Jim stared at her, and drew himself up haughtily. “It really is late, Miss Orr,” he said. “I think, if you will allow me, I will take you home.”

“What are you angry about?”

“I am not angry.”

“Yes, you are. You are angry because I said that about landscape gardening.”

“I am not a beggar or a man who undertakes a job he is not competent to perform, if I am poor.”

“Will you undertake setting those grounds to rights, if I buy the place?”

“Why don't you hire a regular landscape man if you have so much money?” asked Jim rudely.

“I would rather have you. I want somebody I can work with. I have my own ideas. I want to hire you to work with me. Will you?”

“Time enough to settle that when you've bought the place. You must go home now. Here, take my arm. This sidewalk is an apology for one.”

Lydia took the young man's arm obediently, and they began walking.

“What on earth are you going to do with all that truck you bought?” asked Jim.

Lydia laughed. “To tell you the truth, I haven't the slightest idea,” said she. “Pretty awful, most of it, isn't it?”

“I wouldn't give it house room.”

“I won't either. I bought it, but I won't have it.”

“You must take us for a pretty set of paupers, to throw away money like that.”

“Now, don't you get mad again. I did want to buy it. I never wanted to buy things so much in my life.”

“I never saw such a queer girl.”

“You will know I am not queer some time, and I would tell you why now, but—”

“Don't you tell me a thing you don't want to.”

“I think I had better wait just a little. But I don't know about all those things.”

“Say, why don't you send them to missionaries out West?”

“Oh, could I?”

“Of course you can. What's to hinder?”

“When I buy that place will you help me?”

“Of course I will. Now you are talking! I'm glad to do anything like that. I think I'd be nutty if I had to live in the same house as that fair.”

The girl burst into a lovely peal of laughter. “Exactly what I thought all the time,” said she. “I wanted to buy them; you don't know how much; but it was like buying rabbits, and white elephants, and—oh, I don't know! a perfect menagerie of things I couldn't bear to live with, and I didn't see how I could give them away, and I couldn't think of a place to throw them away.” She laughed again.

Jim stopped suddenly. “Say.”

“What?”

“Why, it will be an awful piece of work to pack off all those contraptions, and it strikes me it is pretty hard on the missionaries. There's a gravel pit down back of the Bolton place, and if you buy it—”

“What?”

“Well, bury the fair there.”

Lydia stopped short, and laughed till she cried. “You don't suppose they would ever find out?”

“Trust me. You just have the whole lot moved into the house, and we'll fix it up.”

“Oh, I can't tell you how thankful I am to you,” said Lydia fervently. “I felt like a nightmare with all those things. Some of them can be used of course, but some—oh, those picture throws, and those postage stamp plates!”

“They are funny, but sort of pitiful, too,” said Jim. “Women are sort of pitiful, lots of them. I'm glad I am a man.”

“I should think you would be,” said the girl. She looked up in his face with an expression which he did not see. He was regarding women in the abstract; she was suddenly regarding men in the individual.