History is said to repeat itself, as if indeed the world were a vast pendulum, swinging between events now inconceivably remote, and again menacing and near. And if in things great and heroic, so also in the less significant aspects of life.

Mrs. Henry Daggett stood, weary but triumphant, amid the nearly completed preparations for a reception in the new church parlors, her broad, rosy face wearing a smile of satisfaction.

“Don't it look nice?” she said, by way of expressing her overflowing contentment.

Mrs. Maria Dodge, evergreen wreaths looped over one arm, nodded.

“It certainly does look fine, Abby,” said she. “And I guess nobody but you would have thought of having it.”

Mrs. Daggett beamed. “I thought of it the minute I heard about that city church that done it. I call it a real tasty way to treat a minister as nice as ours.”

“So 'tis,” agreed Mrs. Dodge with the air of complacent satisfaction she had acquired since Fanny's marriage to the minister. “And I think Wesley'll appreciate it.”

Mrs. Daggett's face grew serious. Then her soft bosom heaved with mirth.

“'Tain't everybody that's lucky enough to have a minister right in the family,” said she briskly. “Mebbe if I was to hear a sermon preached every day in the week I'd get some piouser myself. I've been comparing this with the fair we had last summer. It ain't so grand, but it's newer. A fair's like a work of nature, Maria; sun and rain and dew, and the scrapings from the henyard, all mixed with garden ground to fetch out cabbages, potatoes or roses. God gives the increase.”

Mrs. Dodge stared at her friend in amazement.

“That sounds real beautiful, Abby,” she said. “You must have thought it all out.”

“That's just what I done,” confirmed Mrs. Daggett happily. “I'm always meditating about something, whilst I'm working 'round th' house. And it's amazing what thoughts'll come to a body from somewheres.... What you going to do with them wreaths, Maria?”

“Why, I was thinking of putting 'em right up here,” said Mrs. Dodge, pointing.

“A good place,” said Mrs. Daggett. “Remember Fanny peeking through them wreaths last summer? Pretty as a pink! An' now she's Mis' Reveren' Elliot. I seen him looking at her that night.... My! My! What lots of things have took place in our midst since then.”

Mrs. Dodge, from the lofty elevation of a stepladder, looked across the room.

“Here comes Ann Whittle with two baskets,” she said, “and Mrs. Solomon Black carrying a big cake, and a whole crowd of ladies just behind 'em.”

“Glad they ain't going to be late like they was last year,” said Mrs. Daggett. “My sakes! I hadn't thought so much about that fair till today; the scent of the evergreens brings it all back. We was wondering who'd buy the things; remember, Maria?”

“I should say I did,” assented Mrs. Dodge, hopping nimbly down from the ladder. “There, that looks even nicer than it did at the fair; don't you think so, Abby?”

“It looks perfectly lovely, Maria.”

“Well, here we are at last,” announced Mrs. Whittle as she entered. “I had to wait till the frosting stiffened up on my cake.”

She bustled over to a table and began to take the things out of her baskets. Mrs. Daggett hurried forward to meet Mrs. Solomon Black, who was advancing with slow majesty, bearing a huge disk covered with tissue paper.

Mrs. Black was not the only woman in the town of Brookville who could now boast sleeves made in the latest Parisian style. Her quick black eyes had already observed the crisp blue taffeta, in which Mrs. Whittle was attired, and the fresh muslin gowns decked with uncreased ribbons worn by Mrs. Daggett and her friend, Maria Dodge. Mrs. Solomon Black's water-waves were crisp and precise, as of yore, and her hard red cheeks glowed like apples above the elaborate embroidery of her dress.

“Here, Mis' Black, let me take your cake!” offered Abby Daggett. “I sh'd think your arm would be most broke carryin' it all the way from your house.”

“Thank you, Abby; but I wouldn't das' t' resk changin' it; I'll set it right down where it's t' go.”

The brisk chatter and laughter, which by now had prevaded the big place, ceased as by a preconcerted signal, and a dozen women gathered about the table toward which Mrs. Solomon Black was moving like the central figure in some stately pageant.

“Fer pity sake!” whispered Mrs. Mixter, “what d' you s'pose she's got under all that tissue paper?”

Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the other of the eager, curious faces gathered around.

“There!” she said. “I feel now 's 'o' I could dror m' breath once more. I ain't joggled it once, so's t' hurt, since I started from home.”

Then slowly she withdrew the shrouding tissue paper from the creation she had thus triumphantly borne to its place of honor, and stood off, a little to one side, her face one broad smile of satisfaction.

“Fer goodness' sake!”

“Did you ev—er!”

“Why, Mis' Black!”

“Ain't that just—”

“You never done that all yourself?”

Mrs. Black nodded slowly, almost solemnly. The huge cake which was built up in successive steps, like a pyramid, was crowned on its topmost disk by a bridal scene, a tiny man holding his tiny veiled bride by the hand in the midst of an expanse of pink frosting. About the side of the great cake, in brightly colored “mites,” was inscribed “Greetings to our Pastor and his Bride.”

“I thought 'twould be kind of nice, seeing our minister was just married, and so, in a way, this is a wedding reception. I don't know what the rest of you ladies'll think.”

Abby Daggett stood with clasped hands, her big soft bosom rising and falling in a sort of ecstasy.

“Why, Phoebe,” she said, “it's a real poem! It couldn't be no han'somer if it had been done right up in heaven!”

She put her arms about Mrs. Solomon Black and kissed her.

“And this ain't all,” said Mrs. Black. “Lois Daggett is going to fetch over a chocolate cake and a batch of crullers for me when she comes.”

Applause greeted this statement.

“Time was,” went on Mrs. Black, “and not so long ago, neither, when I was afraid to spend a cent, for fear of a rainy day that's been long coming. 'Tain't got here yet; but I can tell you ladies, I got a lesson from her in generosity I don't mean to forget. ‘Spend and be spent’ is my motto from now on; so I didn't grudge the new-laid eggs I put in that cake, nor yet the sugar, spice nor raisins. There's three cakes in one—in token of the trinity (I do hope th' won't nobody think it's wicked t' mention r'ligion in connection with a cake); the bottom cake was baked in a milk-pan, an' it's a bride's cake, being made with the whites of fourteen perfec'ly fresh eggs; the next layer is fruit and spice, as rich as wedding cake ought to be; the top cake is best of all; and can be lifted right off and given to Rever'nd an' Mrs. Wesley Elliot.... I guess they'll like to keep the wedding couple for a souvenir.”

A vigorous clapping of hands burst forth. Mrs. Solomon Black waited modestly till this gratifying demonstration had subsided, then she went on:

“I guess most of you ladies'll r'member how one short year ago Miss Lyddy Orr Bolton came a'walkin' int' our midst, lookin' sweet an' modest, like she was; and how down-in-th'-mouth we was all a-feelin', 'count o' havin' no money t' buy th' things we'd worked s' hard t' make. Some of us hadn't no more grit an' gumption 'n Ananias an' S'phira, t' say nothin' o' Jonah an' others I c'd name. In she came, an' ev'rythin' was changed from that minute! ...Now, I want we sh'd cut up that cake—after everybody's had a chance t' see it good—all but th' top layer, same's I said—an' all of us have a piece, out o' compl'ment t' our paster an' his wife, an' in memory o' her, who's gone from us.”

“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.

“Just been fetchin' in th' ice cream freezers,” he said, with his booming chuckle. “I guess I'm 's well 's c'n be expected, under th' circumstances, ma'am.... An' that r'minds me, parson, a little matter was s'ggested t' me. In fact, I'd thought of it, some time ago. No more 'n right, in view o' th' facts. If you don't mind, I'll outline th' idee t' you, parson, an' see if you approve.”

Fanny, striving to focus attention on the pointed remarks Miss Lois Daggett was making, caught occasional snatches of their conversation. Fanny had never liked Lois Daggett; but in her new r?le of minister's wife, it was her foreordained duty to love everybody and to condole and sympathize with the parish at large. One could easily sympathize with Lois Daggett, she was thinking; what would it be like to be obliged daily to face the reflection of that mottled complexion, that long, pointed nose, with its rasped tip, that drab lifeless hair with its sharp hairpin crimp, and those small greenish eyes with no perceptible fringe of lashes? Fanny looked down from her lovely height into Miss Daggett's upturned face and pitied her from the bottom of her heart.

“I hear your brother Jim has gone t' Boston,” Miss Daggett was saying with a simper.

From the rear Fanny heard Judge Fulsom's rumbling monotone, earnestly addressed to her husband:

“Not that Boston ain't a nice town t' live in; but we'll have t' enter a demurrer against her staying there f'r good. Y' see—”

“Yes,” said Fanny, smiling at Miss Daggett. “He went several days ago.”

“H'm-m,” murmured Miss Daggett. “She's livin' there, ain't she?”

“You mean Miss Orr?”

“I mean Miss Lyddy Bolton. I guess Bolton's a good 'nough name for her.”

From the Judge, in a somewhat louder tone:

“That's th' way it looks t' me, dominie; an' if all th' leadin' citizens of Brookville'll put their name to it—an' I'm of th' opinion they will, when I make my charge t' th' jury—”

“Certainly,” murmured Fanny absently, as she gazed at her husband and the judge.

She couldn't help wondering why her Wesley was speaking so earnestly to the Judge, yet in such a provokingly low tone of voice.

“I had become so accustomed to thinking of her as Lydia Orr,” she finished hastily.

“Well, I don't b'lieve in givin' out a name 'at ain't yourn,” said Lois Daggett, sharply. “She'd ought t' 'a' told right out who she was, an' what she come t' Brookville for.”

Judge Fulsom and the minister had moved still further away. Fanny, with some alarm, felt herself alone.

“I don't think Miss Orr meant to be deceitful,” she said nervously.

“Well, o' course, if she's a-goin' t' be in th' family, it's natural you sh'd think so,” said Lois Daggett, sniffing loudly.

Fanny did not answer.

“I sh'd hope she an' Jim was engaged,” proclaimed Miss Daggett. “If they ain't, they'd ought t' be.”

“Why should you say that, Miss Lois?” asked Fanny hurriedly. “They are very good friends.”

Miss Daggett bent forward, lowering her ............