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The tongues which Hiram had set wagging were all experts and before many days had passed the fields of gossip were green with springing slander and disgrace for the fair name of Phoebe Deane.

All unconsciously she moved above it, making happy plans, and singing her sweet song of hope. She did not mind work, for it was pleasant to feel strong again. She even hummed a sweet time that she had heard Marcia play. Emmeline was puzzled to understand it all.

But the thing that puzzled Emmeline most of all was that Hiram Green had not been near the house since the day he had the talk with her about the village lot, and had boasted that he was going to marry Phoebe before another year.

Steadily every day Hiram's new house was growing. Emmeline could see it from her window, and she wondered if perhaps he was preparing to break his promise and court another girl instead of Phoebe, or was this a part of his plan to stay away until the house was done? It troubled Emmeline every day. Neither could she understand how Phoebe could be happy and settle down so cheerfully, having driven her one suitable lover away.

Phoebe had ventured to discuss the plan of her going away with Albert, who seemed rather disappointed to have her go, but was nevertheless willing, and said that he thought such a plan would have pleased her mother. He broached the subject to Emmeline, and thereupon brought down upon the family a storm of rage. Emmeline scoffed at the idea. She said that Phoebe was already spoiled for anything in life, and that if she used up her money getting more spoiling she couldn't see how in the world she expected to support herself; for she wouldn't be a part}' to Phoebe's living any longer on them if she spent her money on more schooling. Then Emmeline put on her bonnet and ran across the field to Hiram's farm, where she found him at the knoll superintending the putting up of a great stone chimney.

"Say, look-a-here, Hiram Green,"she began, excitedly, getting him off a little way from the workmen, "what do you mean by sech actions? Hev you give up Phoebe Deane, er haven't yeh? 'Cause ef yeh ain't yeh better be tendin' to business. She's got it int' her fool head now to go off to school, an' she'll do it, too. I ken see Albert's jest soft enough to let 'er."

Hiram smiled a peculiar smile.

"Don't you worry, Emmeline. I know what I'm 'bout, an' you'll git your corner lot yit. Phoebe Deane won't go off to no boardin'-school, not yit awhile, 'er I'll miss my guess. Jest you leave it to me!"

"Oh, very well!"said Emmeline, going off in a huff. She returned by a roundabout route to her home, where she proceeded to make life miserable for Phoebe and Albert in spite of all that they could do.

Then one morning, lo! the little town was agog with the gossip about Phoebe Deane, and it had grown into enormous proportions, for as it traveled from the circle of country round about into the town it condensed into more tangible form, and the number of people who had seen Phoebe Deane with strange young men at the edge of dark, or in lonely places, grew with each repetition. Everybody seemed to know it and be talking about it except Phoebe herself and her own family and friends. Somehow no one had quite dared to mention it before any of them yet, it was too new and startling.

Sunday morning the Deanes went to church, and there were strange turnings away from them, and much whispering, nodding, and nudging as they passed. It had not been expected that Phoebe would appear in church. It was considered brazen in her to do so. It was evidently all and more true.

Hiram Green came to church but he did not look toward the Deanes' pew. He sat at the back with pious manner and drooping countenance, and after church made his melancholy way out without stopping to talk, or attempting to get near Phoebe. This was observed significantly; also the fact that Mrs. Spafford walked down the aisle in friendly converse with Phoebe Deane as if nothing had happened. Evidently she had not heard yet. Somebody ought to tell her. They discussed the matter in groups on the way home.

Old Mrs. Baldwin and her daughter Belinda were much worried about it. They went so far as to call to the doctor and his wife who were passing their house that afternoon on the way to see a sick patient.

"Doctor,"said Mrs. Baldwin, coming out to the sidewalk as the doctor drew up to speak with her, "I ain't a going to bother you a minute but I just wanted to ask if you knew much about this story that's been going round about Phoebe Deane. It seems as though some one ought to tell Mrs. Spafford. She's been real kind to the girl, and she don't seem to have heard it. I don't know her so well, or I would, but somebody ought to do it. I didn't know but you or your wife would undertake to do it. They walked down the aisle together after church this morning, and it seemed too bad. David Spafford wouldn't like to have his wife so conspicuous, I know. Belinda says he was out of town yesterday, so I s'pose he hasn't heard about it yet, but I think something ought to be done."

"Yes, it's a very sad story,"chirped the doctor's wife. "I just heard it myself this morning. The doctor didn't want to believe it, but I tell him it comes very straight."

"Oh, yes, it's straight,"said Mrs. Baldwin, with an ominous shake of her head and a righteous roll of her eyes. "It's all too straight. I had it from a friend who had it from Hiram Green's aunt's cousin. She said Hiram was just bowed with grief over it, and they were going to have a real hard time to keep him from marrying her in spite of it."

The doctor frowned. He was fond of Phoebe. He felt that they all had better mind their own business and let Phoebe alone.

"I would be quite willing to speak to Miss Hortense or Miss Amelia Spafford,"said the doctor's wife. "I'm intimate with them, you know, and they could do as they thought best about telling their niece."

"That's a good idea,"said Mrs. Baldwin. "That quite relieves my mind. I was real worried over that sweet little Mrs. Spafford, and she with that pretty little Rose to bring up. They wouldn't of course want a scandal to come anywhere near them. They better look out for that Griscom girl. She comes from poor stock. I said long ago she'd never be any good, and she's been with that Phoebe Deane off an' on a good bit."

"Oh, I think that was all kindness,"said the doctor's wife. "Mrs. Spafford was very kind during Phoebe Deane's illness. The doctor knew all about that."

"Yes, I s'spose the doctor knows all 'bout things. That's the reason I called you, and on Sunday too; but I thought it was a work of necessity and mercy. Well, good afternoon, Doctor, I won't keep you any longer."

"There's that pretty Miss Bristol ought to be told, too, ma,"reminded Belinda.

"That's so, Belinda,"said the doctor's wife. "I'll take it upon myself to warn her, too. So sad, isn't it ? Well, goodby,"and the doctor's chaise drove on. The doctor was inclined to prevent his wife from taking part in the scandal business, but his wife had her own plans which she did not reveal. She shut her thin lips and generally did as she pleased.

The very next day she took her way down the shaded street and called upon the aunts of the house of Spafford, and before she left she had drooped her eyes and told in sepulchral whispers of the disgrace that had befallen the young protégée of their niece, Mrs. David Spafford.

Aunt Amelia and Aunt Hortense lifted their hands in righteous horror and thanked the doctor's wife for the information, saying they were sure Marcia knew nothing of it, and of course they would tell her at once and she would henceforth having nothing further to do with the Deanes.

Then the doctor's wife went on her mission to Janet Bristol.

Janet Bristol was properly scandalized, and charmingly grateful to the doctor's wife. She said of course Phoebe was nothing to her, but she had thought her rather pretty, and interesting. She was obviously bored with the rest of the good woman's call, and when it was over she betook herself to her writing desk where she scribbled off a letter to her cousin Nathaniel concerning a party she wished to give and for which she wanted him and his friend Martin Van Rensselaer to come up. At the close she added a hasty postscript.

"The doctor's wife has just called. She tells me I must beware of your paragon, Miss Deane, as there is a terribly scandalous story going around about her and a young man. I didn't pay much attention to the horrid details of it, I never like to get my mind filled with such things, but it is bad enough, and of course I shall have nothing further to do with her. I wonder Mrs. Spafford did not have the discernment to see she was not all right. I suspected it from the first you know, and you see I was right. My intuitions are usually right. I am glad I have not had much to do with her."

Now it happened that Rose was not well that Sunday and Miranda had stayed at home with her, else she would surely have discovered the state of things, and revealed it to Marcia. And it happened also that Marcia started off with David on a long ride early Monday morning, therefore when Aunt Hortense came down on her direful errand Marcia was not there, and Miranda, seeing her coming, escaped with Kose through the back door for a walk in the woods. So another day passed without the scandal reaching either Miranda or Marcia.

It was on Monday morning that the storm broke upon poor Phoebe's defenseless head.

A neighbor had come over from the next farm a quarter of a mile away to borrow a cup of hop yeast. It was a queer time to borrow yeast, at an hour in the week when every well-regulated family was doing its washing, but that was the neighbor's professed errand. She lingered a moment by the door with the yeast cup in her hand and talked to Emmeline.

Phoebe was in the yard hanging up clothes, and singing. The little bird was sitting on the weather-vane and calling merrily: "Phoe-bee! Phoe-bee!"

"Are yeh goin' to let her stay here now ? "the visitor asked in a whisper fraught with meaning, and nodded her head toward the girl in the yard.

"Stay ? "said Emmeline, looking up aggressively. "Why shouldn't she? Ain't she been here ever since her mother died? I s'pose she'll stay till she gets married."

Emmeline was not fond of this neighbor, and therefore did not care to reveal her family secrets to her. She lived in a red house with windows both ways and knew all that went on for miles about.

"Guess she won't run much chance of that now,"said the neighbor, with a disagreeable laugh. She was prepared to be sociable if Emmeline opened her heart, but she knew how to scratch back when she was slapped.

"Well, I sh'd like to know what you mean, Mis' Prinn. I'm sure I don't know why our Phoebe shouldn't marry es likely es any other girl, an' more so'n some what ain't got good looks."

(Mrs. Prinn's daughter was not spoken of generally as a beauty.)

"Good looks don't count fer much when they ain't got good morals."

"Indeed! Mis' Prinn. You do talk kind of mysterious. Did you mean to insinuate that our Phoebe didn't have good morals ? "

"I didn't mean to insinuate anything, Mis' Deane. It's all over town the way she's been goin' on, an' I don't see how you can pertend to hide it any longer. Everybody knows it, an' b'lieves it."

"I'd certainly like to know what you mean,"demanded Emmeline, facing the woman angrily. "I brung that girl up, an' I guess I know what good morals is. Phoebe may have her weak points, but she's all right morally."

"Fac's is fac's, Mis' Deane,"said the neighbor, with a relish.

"I deny that there is any fac's to the contrary,"screamed Emmeline, now thoroughly excited into championing the girl whom she hated. The family honor was at stake. The Deanes had never done anything dishonorable or disgraceful.

"I s'pose you don't deny that she spent the night out all night the time o' the storm, do yeh? How d' ye explain that?"

"I should like to know what that hes to do with morals."

The neighbor proceeded to explain with a story so plausible that Emmeline grew livid with rage.

"Well, 'pon my word, you've got a lot to do runnin' round with sech lies as them. Wher 'd you get all that, I'd like to know ? "

"It all come straight enough, an' everybody knows it, ef you are stone blind. Folks has seen her round in lonely places with a strange feller. They do say he kissed her right in plain sight of the road near the woods one day. An' you know yerself she went off and stayed all night. She was seen in the stage-coach 'long with a strange man. There's witnesses! You can't deny it. What I want to know, is, what are you goin' to do 'bout it? 'Cause ef you keep her here after that I can't let my dotter come here anymore. When girls is talked about like that decent girls can't hev nothin' to do with 'em. You think you know a hull lot 'bout that girl out there, singin' songs in this brazen way with the hull town talkin' 'bout her, but she's deceived you, that's what she's done; an' I thought I'd be good enough neighbor to tell you, ef you didn't know a'ready. But es you don't seem to take it as 'twas meant, in kindness, I'd best be goin'."

"You'd best had,"screamed Emmeline, "an' be sure you keep your precious dotter to hum. Hum's the place fer delikit little creatures like that. You might find she was deceivin' you ef you looked sharp enough."

Then Emmeline turned and faced the wondering Phoebe, who had heard the loud voices and slipped in through the wood-shed to escape being drawn into the altercation. She had no idea what it all was about. She had been engaged with her own happy thoughts.

"I'd like to know what all this scandal's about, Phoebe Deane. Jest set down there and explain. What kind of goin's on hev you hed, that all the town's talkin' 'bout you? Mis' Prinn comes an' says she can't let her dotter come over here any more ef you stay here. I don't know that it's much loss, fer she never come to 'mount to much, but I can't hev folks talkin' that way. No decent girl ought to have her name kicked around in that style. I may not hev hed a great ejjacation like you think you've got to have, but I knowed enough to keep my name off folks' tongues, an' it seems you don't. Now I'd like to know what young man or men you've been kitin' round with. Answer me that ? They say you've been seen in the woods alone, and walkin' at night with a strange man, an' goin' off in the stagecoach. Now what in the world does it all mean.?"

Phoebe, turning deathly white, with a sudden return of her recent weakness, sank upon a kitchen chair, her arms full of dried clothes, and essayed to understand the angry woman who stormed back and forth across her kitchen, livid with rage, pouring out a perfect torrent of wrath and incriminations.

When there came a moment's interval Phoebe would try to answer her, but Emmeline, roused beyond control, would not listen. She stormed and raged at Phoebe, calling her names, and telling her what a trial she had always been, until suddenly Phoebe's new found strength gave away entirely and she dropped back in a faint against the wall, and would have fallen if Albert had not come in just then un- perceived, and caught her. He carried her upstairs tenderly and laid her on her bed. In a moment she opened her sad eyes again and looked up at him.

"What's the matter, Phoebe ? "he asked, tenderly. "Been working too hard ?"But Phoebe could only answer by a rush of tears.

Albert, troubled as a man always is by woman's tears, stumbled downstairs to Emmeline to find out, and was met by an overwhelming story.

"Who says all that 'bout my sister?"he demanded, in a cool voice, and rising with a dignity that sat strangely upon his kindly figure. "She ain't your sister,"hissed Emmeline. "She ain't any but a half relation to you, an' it's time you told her so an' turned her out of the house. She'll be a disgrace to you an' your decent wife an' children. I can't have my Alma brought up in a house with a girl that's disgraced herself like that."

"You keep still, Emmeline,"said Albert, gravely. "You don't rightly know what you're saying. You've got excited. I'll attend to this matter. What I want to know is, Who said this about my sister ? I'll go get Hiram Green to help me, and we'll face the scoundrel, whoever it is, and make him take it back before the whole town."

"What if it's true! "mocked Emmeline.

"It isn't true. It couldn't be true. You know it couldn't, Emmeline."

"I'm not so sure o' that,"raged his wife. "Wait till you hear all,"and she proceeded to recount what Mrs. Prinn had told her.

"I am ashamed of you, Emmeline, that you'll think of such a thing for a minute, no matter who told you. Don't say another word about it. I'm going out to find Hiram."

"Ain't you noticed that Hiram ain't ben comin' here lately ? "Emmeline's voice was anything but pleasant. Albert looked at her in astonishment.

"Well, what o' that? He's a good man, and he's fond o' Phoebe. He'll be sure to go with me and defend her."

Albert went out and she saw him hurrying down the road toward Hiram's.

Hiram, like an old spider, was waiting for him in the barn. He had been expecting him for two days, not thinking it would take so long for the news to spread into the home of the victim. He looked gloomy and non-committal as Albert came up, and greeted him with half-averted eyes.

"I've come to get your help,"said Albert, with expectant good will. "Hiram, hev you heard all this fool talk about Phoebe? I can't really believe folks would say that about her, but Emmeline's got it in her head everybody knows it."

"Yes, I heard it,"admitted Hiram, reaching out for a straw to chew. "I spent one hull day last week goin' round tryin' to stop it, but 'twant no use. I couldn't even find out who started it. You never ken, them things. But the wust of it is, it's all true."

"What!"

"Yes,"said Hiram, dismally, "'tis. I'm sorry t' say it to you, what's ben my friend, 'bout her I hoped to marry some day, but I seen some things myself. I seen thet day they talk 'bout in the edge o' the woods, an' I seen her cut an' run when she heard my wagon comin', an' when she looked up an' see it was me she was deadly pale. That was the fust I knowed she wan't true to me."

Hiram closed his lying lips and looked off sorrowfully at the hills in the distance.

"Hiram, you must be mistaken. There is some explanation."

"All right, Albert, glad you ken think so. Wish't I could. It mos' breaks my heart thinkin' 'bout her. I'm all bound up in havin' her. I'd take her now with all her disgrace an' run the resk o' keepin' her straight ef she'd promise to behave herself. She's mighty young, an' it does seem too bad. But yeh see, Albert, I seen her myself with my own eyes in the stage-coach along with the same man what kissed her in the woods, an' yeh know yerself she didn't come back till next night."

With a groan Albert sank down on a box near by and covered his face with his hands. He had been well brought up and disgrace like this was something he had never dreamed of. His agony amazed the ice-hearted Hiram, and he almost quailed before the sight of such sorrow in a man, sorrow that he himself had made. It embarrassed him. He turned away to hide his contempt.

"It comes mighty hard on me to see you suffer thet way, Albert, an' not be able to help you,"he whined after a minute. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll marry her anyway. I'll marry her an' save her reputation. Nbbody'll dast say anythin' 'bout my wife, an' ef I marry her that'll be es much es to say all this ain't so, an' mebbe it'll die down."

Albert looked up with manly tears in his eyes.

"That's real good of you, Hiram. I'll take it as mighty kind of you if you think there isn't any other way to stop it. It seems hard on you, though."

"I ain't thinkin' o' myself,"swelled Hiram. "I'm thinkin' o' the girl, an' I don't see no other way. When things is true, you know, there ain't no way o' denyin' them, 'specially when folks hes seen so many things. But just oncet get her good an' respectably married an' it'll all blow over an' be forgot."

They talked a long time, and Hiram embellished the stories that had been told by many a new incident out of his fertile brain, until Albert was thoroughly convinced that the only way to save Phoebe's reputation was for her to be married at once to Hiram.

Albert went home at last, and entered the kitchen with a chastened air. Emmeline eyed him keenly. Phoebe had not come downstairs and his wife had all the work to do again. She was not enjoying the state of things.

Albert sat down and looked at the floor.

"Hiram has been very kind,"he said, slowly, "most kind. He has offered to marry Phoebe at once and stop all this talk."

A light of understanding began to dawn in Emmeline's eyes.

"H'm!"she said. Then, after a thoughtful pause. "But I guess Miss Phoebe Deane'll hev a word to say 'bout that. She don't like him a bit."

"Poor child!"moaned Albert. "She'll have to take him, whether she likes him or not. Poor little girl. I blame myself I didn't look after her better. Her mother was a real lady and so good to me when I was home. I promised her I'd keep Phoebe safe. She was such a good woman, it would break her heart to have Phoebe go like this."

"H'm! I don't reckon she was no better than other folks, only she set up to be!"sniffed Emmeline. "Anyhow this is just what might 'a' ben expected from the headstrong way that girl went on. I see now why she was set on goin' off to school. She knowed this was a' comin' an' she wanted to slip an' run 'fore it got out. But she got caught. Sinners generally does."Emmeline wrung out her dishcloth with satisfaction.

"I'll go up now and talk with Phoebe,"said Albert, rising sadly as if he had not heard his wife.

"I'm sure I wish you joy of your errand. Ef she ac's to you es she does to me you'll come flyin' down faster'n you went up."

But Albert was tapping at Phoebe's door before Emmeline had finished her sentence.