Her cheeks tingled hotly as she recalled the way in which
Joyce Fulsom had remarked the plate of melting ice cream on the top
shelf of Mrs. Black's what-not:
"I guess Mr. Elliot forgot his cream," the girl had said, with a
spark of malice. "I saw him out in the yard awhile ago talking to
that Miss Orr."
Fanny had humiliated herself still further by pretending she didn't
know it was the minister who had left his ice cream to dissolve in a
pink and brown puddle of sweetness. Whereat Joyce Fulsom had giggled
disagreeably.
"Better keep your eye on him, Fan," she had advised.
Of course she couldn't speak of this to Jim; but it was all plain
enough to her.
"I'm going down to the village for awhile, Fan," her brother said, as
he arose from the table. But he did not, as was his custom, invite
her to accompany him.
After Jim had gone, Fanny washed the dishes with mechanical
swiftness. Her mother had asked her if she would come to prayer
meeting, and walk home with her afterwards. Not that Mrs. Dodge was
timid; the neighborhood of Brookville had never been haunted after
nightfall by anything more dangerous than whippoorwills and frogs. A
plaintive chorus of night sounds greeted the girl, as she stepped out
into the darkness. How sweet the honeysuckle and late roses smelled
under the dew! Fanny walked slowly across the yard to the old
summer-house, where the minister had asked her to call him Wesley,
and sat down. It was very dark under the thick-growing vines, and
after awhile tranquillity of a sort stole over the girl's spirit.
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