"Mrs. Black has just told me about that fair," said Wesley. "Say, do
you know, I loathe the idea of it?"
"Why? A fair is no end of fun. We always have them."
"Beggary."
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, it is. I might just as well put on some black glasses, get a
little dog with a string, and a basket, and done with it."
The girl giggled. "I know what you mean," said she, "but your salary
has to be paid, and folks have to be cajoled into handing out the
money." Suddenly she looked troubled. "If there is any to hand," she
added.
"I want you to tell me something and be quite frank about it."
Fanny shot a glance at him. Her lashes were long, and she could look
through them with liquid fire of dark eyes.
"Well?" said she. She threaded a needle with pink silk.
"Is Brookville a very poor village?"
Fanny inserted her pink-threaded needle into the square of linen.
"What," she inquired with gravity, "is the past tense of bust?"
"I am in earnest."
"So am I. But I know a minister is never supposed to know about such
a word as bust, even if he is bust two-thirds of is life. I'll tell
you. First Brookville was bust, now it's busted."
Wesley stared at her.
"Fact," said Fanny, calmly, starting a rose on the linen in a career
of bloom. "First, years ago, when I was nothing but a kid, Andrew
Bolton--you have heard of Andrew Bolton?"
"I have heard him mentioned. I have never understood why everybody
was so down on him, though he is serving a term in prison, I believe.
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