"Did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling, as she ran into Mrs. Thornton's just after breakfast the next morning to finish what she did not have time to say the night before.

"You mean Miss Wallace?"

"Yes; did you—"

"Never!"

"I wouldn't have thought she'd dared!" said Mrs. Darling, with a sanctimonious look on her pretty face.

"Nor I."

"Wonder what Mrs. Tweedie thinks."

"She was in a rage last night."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, she was awfully angry."

"I wouldn't have dared to wear such a costume, would you?"

"Not for worlds."

"It was pretty, though."

"And she looked terribly stunning."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that there'll be trouble over it in the club."

"Shouldn't wonder a mite."

"Well, I must be going; good-bye."

"Good-bye; if you hear anything—"

"I'll run in; good-bye."

This was a sample of the talk that was going on all over Manville the morning after the "Big Show." Masters, mistresses, and maids, all were talking; at front doors, back doors, in the parlours, in the kitchens, on the corners—everywhere. Few praised—many censured. And poor Barbara, it was her name that was on every lip. By night everybody in Manville had taken sides for or against her, and, strange to relate, more men than women were ready to defend her.

Stout's Grocery was the objective of many of the male population that morning. Mr. Blake, the undertaker, was the first to arrive.

"A splendid show, Peter," he said.

"Fine."

"Manville ought to be proud."

"She had."

"Miss Wallace made a great hit, didn't she?"

"Say, wa'n't she great!" replied Peter, enthusiastically.

"She was, and her costume—" Mr. Blake continued, but Peter interrupted him.

"Beat 'em all," he said.

"I suppose that some of the stiff-backs are offended," remarked Mr. Blake, after a pause.

"What if they be?" asked Peter, indignantly. Just then Doctor Jones came in. "Mornin', doctor."

"Good morning," the doctor cheerfully replied.

"Did you go to the show last night, doctor?" asked Mr. Blake.

"Yes, I got there just in time to see Miss Wallace."

"Like her?"

"Well," said the doctor, slowly, "I have always liked her, but now I think she's immense. Send our order up early, will you, Peter?" And then he hurried out of the store, bumping into Sam Billings, who was coming in.

"Hello, Doc," said Sam, familiarly, "what you got to say about the show?" The doctor, not caring to listen to a long argument, continued on his way without replying.

"Didn't that show beat all creation?" was Sam's greeting as he entered the store after his encounter with the doctor. "And did you notice the crowd? They can say all they're a mind to 'gainst advertisin', but I say it pays. That hall wouldn't have been half-full if I hadn't taken hold."

Alick Purbeck came in from the back room in time to hear enough of what Sam said to know what he was blowing about.

"Say, Sam, can't you tell us now who put you up to that advertisin' scheme?" he asked.

"I dunno's that's any of your business," replied Sam, sulkily.

"No, it ain't," said Alick, "but I happen to know that it kicked up a row in the church and the woman's club, and folks do say that it was Miss Sawyer that put the idea into your head."

"Well," drawled Sam, "I won't deny that she said somethin', but she didn't do nothin'. I'm the only one responsible."

"Just as I thought," said Alick, knowingly. "I knew you'd been hangin' round her some this winter."

"Yes, you most always know everything that's goin' on," retorted Sam. "Back doors can't keep their mouths shut."

Alick resented this remark, and the resentment was in the form of a rotten apple which struck the offender full in the mouth.

"Quit that foolin'," growled Peter, in time to prevent trouble.

At that moment Ezra Tweedie slunk into the store, casting glances of fear behind at every step as though some dreadful monster was on his trail. He shut the door carefully, then went to the stove, held out his hands to be warmed, shivered, and sighed. His face was drawn and white, and the telltale circles beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night.

"Mornin', Ezra," said Peter, cordially.

"Good morning, gentlemen," replied Ezra, in a weak voice, as he glanced furtively about.

"You're not feeling well, Mr. Tweedie?" inquired Mr. Blake, sympathetically.

"No," replied Ezra, "I—I'm slightly indisposed, but nothing serious—nothing serious."

"And how is Mrs. Tweedie after all the work she has done?" Mr. Blake continued. Ezra shuddered and coughed.

"She is—a—somewhat nervous," he replied, hesitatingly.

"I don't wonder," blurted Sam, "but I guess she's kinder tickled over the big hit the show made, ain't she?"

"Oh, yes, yes, but—"

Ezra was spared by the entrance of Deacon Walton, whose opinion at that moment was more to be desired than anything that Ezra, in his sorry condition, might say.

Urged by Mr. Flint, the deacon had advised his wife to resign from the club, which she had done, but when the day of the performance came neither the deacon nor his wife could resist the temptation to attend and see what it was like. Their presence caused surprise, but they seemed to enjoy themselves, and many thought that perhaps Mr. Flint had weakened, and had taken that method of showing it. Those present at the store that morning felt that an explanation was due, and Sam proceeded to "pump."

"How'd you like the show, deacon?" he asked.

"Well," the deacon began, as he drew off his mittens and rubbed his hands, "most of it was good, but there was one young woman—" the deacon paused and pointed a long bony finger at Mr. Blake. Peter dropped his work to listen. "One young woman," the deacon repeated, "who was—er—indiscreet in her—er—what she wore."

There was silence for a moment, during which Ezra seemed to shrivel up within his overcoat.

"You mean Miss Wallace, I suppose?" said Mr. Blake.

"I do. The morals of the people of Manville have been shocked," replied the deacon, solemnly.

"You mean them that's got morals," corrected Sam.

"I mean," retorted the deacon, angrily, "those who are worth considering."

Mr. Blake loved an argument, and being the only one present up to the deacon's mental calibre, he naturally was the one to make reply.

"I think that you are mistaken there, deacon," he said, quietly. "Here's Peter, he saw the performance, so did I, we were not shocked."

The deacon's face reddened.

"I—I meant—er—the—er—church people," he stammered.

"Yes, so I supposed," said Mr. Blake, "but there are people outside of the churches who have morals—morals capable of being shocked, too."

"I'll say just this much," replied the deacon. "That young woman did a dangerous thing. She has displeased many of our citizens—"

"And their wives," interposed Sam, but the deacon ignored the remark and continued:

"We cannot have such performances. The young people will be corrupted, the moral tone of our town will fall to the level of the dust. Such a thing has never occurred before, and I sincerely trust never will again, notwithstanding the approbation of a few men who seem to have nothing else to talk about."

"There, deacon," said Mr. Blake, soothingly. "There's no use getting angry about it. Miss Wallace's costume was the same as thousands of other women have worn in public."

"That don't make it right," snapped the deacon.

"Nor wrong," retorted Mr. Blake.

"We'll see," said the deacon, as he drew on his mittens and started for the door. "We'll see when the school committee meets to-night what they think about it." There was a triumphant gleam in the deacon's eyes when he fired that shot, and while his audience was still in a stunned condition from the effect of it he went out.

The morning after, Mrs. Tweedie was still determined on her course, and Fanny's continued pleading did not move her. Barbara must go, and the angry, narrow-minded woman told her so and gave her reasons immediately after breakfast. Barbara had expected to be insulted again, but to be turned out on such short notice was incomprehensible.

"You must go to-day," were Mrs. Tweedie's parting words as Barbara started for school. "To-day," Barbara repeated to herself as she went down the steps. On her way she wondered if it was really as bad as Mrs. Tweedie had said. What were others thinking and saying? Her duties that day were performed mechanically. Her heart was not in the work, and she was glad when school was over, though there was a perplexing task to be accomplished before the day was done.

Fanny called for her late in the afternoon, and they started toward home together.

"I've got all of your things together, Barbara," said Fanny, trying to speak cheerfully. "I thought—mother, you know—" Poor Fanny! it was impossible to explain, or smooth over her mother's conduct, and she burst into tears. Barbara understood, and instead of being comforted turned comforter herself.

"I know that you are my friend, Fanny," she said, as she linked arms with the sobbing girl.

"I am, indeed I am," sobbed Fanny. "I don't care what they say, and I want to help you." She did not tell Barbara that she had spent hours that day in a fruitless search for a boarding-place for her.

"There," said Barbara, when they nearly had reached Mrs. Tweedie's, "don't feel badly any longer. I'll send for my things as soon as I find a place to stay. And don't worry, Fanny, about me, please, everything will come right I know." Fanny kissed her, regardless of whoever might be looking, and went home. Barbara hesitated a moment, and then walked toward the home of Doctor Jones. When Mrs. Jones came to the door in response to the bell she did not ask Barbara to come in.

"Really," she replied when Barbara made known her errand, "there's not a spare room in the house."

Of course Barbara understood, and was very sorry. She next called on Mrs. Blake, and received the same answer. Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Browning all refused. No, they did not refuse, they made excuses—sugar-coated lies. Barbara was beginning to understand that Mrs. Tweedie was not the only one who had turned against her. Darkness had fallen without as well as within. Trying to realize her position, Barbara walked slowly back toward the village. When near the parsonage she stopped, and looked up wistfully at the house and the stream of yellow light that shone down the path from a lamp in the parson's study. Then she looked across the street toward the church so black and still with the steeple rising toward the stars. Barbara hoped that in the parsonage she would find a friend with a kind word. She longed to run into the house and pour out the wretchedness in her aching heart to his mother; to talk of him, the one they both loved. Oh, how happy she could be under the roof that had sheltered him! She went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Flint came, but her answer was the same as the others, except that there were tears in her eyes when she bade Barbara good night. Mrs. Flint would have taken Barbara into her home and heart if she had dared, but her husband had paced his study floor all day, and was in a terrible mood. Once she had listened for a moment and heard him mutter: "The disgrace," and "My son—my son cares for such a woman!" He too had guessed Will's secret, and she knew that Barbara would not be welcome.

When Barbara left the parsonage she walked aimlessly about the village for an hour. The wind came up blustering and cold; she began to feel faint, but could think of no other place to go. At last weariness overcame her, and hardly knowing where she was, she stopped and leaned against a gate-post to rest. Then a strange feeling came over her, she tried to resist it and turned to walk on, but staggered for a moment, and then fell.

After supper Mrs. Stout had gone into a neighbour's for a moment, and when she came scurrying back with a shawl drawn tightly over her head and shoulders, she tripped and almost fell over Barbara, who was lying in her gateway.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed, as she recovered her balance, and then knelt to see who it was. "If it ain't Miss Wallace!"

"Yes," Barbara murmured, as Mrs. Stout helped her to stand and led her into the house.

"You poor child," said Mrs. Stout, as she bustled about making Barbara comfortable on a couch before the sitting-room fire.

"I had walked a long way and was faint," murmured Barbara, trying to explain.

"You ain't had any supper?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise. Barbara smiled faintly, and shook her head. "Haven't you been to Mis' Tweedie's since school?"

"I'm not staying there now," replied Barbara as she turned her face away and shuddered.

"You don't mean it!" Mrs. Stout was beginning to grasp the situation, and her surprise turned quickly to indignation. "She's put you out, that's what she's done, the mean old—"

"No, no," said Barbara, quickly, fearing that Fanny would be included in Mrs. Stout's wrath. "She told me this morning—I tried to find a place—I had plenty of time, but—"

"Nobody'd take you in," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "They was afraid they'd soil their goody-goody hands, I s'pose."

Barbara started to speak, then checked herself and covered her face with her hands. "No, you needn't say a word," Mrs. Stout continued, "I know what's been goin' on in this town to-day, and somebody besides you has got to suffer for it. Now you just lie there and I'll get you somethin' to eat." Mrs. Stout went to the kitchen, and, after an absence of a few minutes, returned with a tempting lunch and a cup of hot tea. Barbara tried to eat, but failed despite Mrs. Stout's kindly intended urging, and dropped back wearily on the couch. When Mrs. Stout started to remove the tray Barbara looked up at her appealingly.

"You'll let me stay to-night, won't you?" she said, in a choking voice.

"Stay, I guess you can if I have to make up a bed for Peter on the floor. Stay just as long as you can stand us," replied Mrs. Stout, earnestly. At that moment they heard Peter come in.

"Emmy," he called as he was taking off his coat in the hall.

"Yes," she replied.

"What do you s'pose that damned school committee done to-night?"

Barbara half-raised herself, her face was pale, and the tears glistened on her eyelashes. Mrs. Stout hurried to head Peter off, but was too late.

"They've discharged Miss Wallace, and—" he stopped abruptly when he came into the room and saw Barbara.

"Discharged!" repeated Barbara as though bewildered, and then she completely lost control of herself, and wept bitterly. Mrs. Stout knelt by her side, and tried to reassure and comfort her, but it was past midnight when Barbara ceased to moan, and asked if she could write a letter.

Mrs. Stout led the trembling girl to a desk, and assured her that Peter would mail the letter, if she wished him to, early the next morning.

Barbara wrote one line: