The next morning the people of Manville had something really new and startling to talk about. When it first became known that Mr. Flint had been stricken with that most dreaded and loathsome disease, smallpox, everybody tried to remember the most recent time that they had been near him. Many who had attended his church on the previous Sunday felt that they were doomed. Others equally superstitious thought that they and Mr. Flint were to be punished in this way by a wrathful God for the persecution of an innocent woman. All sorts of crazy, silly talk was indulged in, but through it all Barbara's praises were sung, though few seemed to understand fully why she had sacrificed herself. Their minds were too narrow, their world too small, to appreciate such service.

The red flag by day, the lantern by night, and Sam Billings all the time on the steps of the parsonage, were objects of curious interest. Many went far out of their way in order to pass by—on the opposite side—and Sam was kept busy all day yelling answers to volleys of questions. But he was equal to the task and enjoyed it. For the time being he was the only person in town of any consequence, the centre of all interest, the only one to answer questions, and he was being paid for it.

At Stout's Grocery, the proprietor, Alick Purbeck, and undertaker Blake were loud and sincere in their praise of Barbara.

"She's the right kind," said Alick, enthusiastically.

"There's not a woman in town her equal," added Mr. Blake.

"Right," said Peter, "exceptin'—"

"Of course, exceptin'—" Alick smiled.

"Excepting our own beloved," Mr. Blake finished for them.

"What are the chances of the smallpox spreadin', Mr. Blake?" asked Alick.

At the suggestion of an epidemic, the undertaker unconsciously rubbed his hands together in a businesslike manner.

"Can't tell yet," he replied. "I have no idea where Mr. Flint got it. This part of the country has been remarkably free from it this winter. Perhaps there won't be another case."

"I hope not," said Alick. "If Mr. Flint gets well, he'll have to take back some things that he's said, won't he?"

"And some other folks, too," added Peter.

"They're beginning to change their minds, already," Alick continued. "Half a dozen women told me this mornin' that all this fuss has been about somethin' that wa'n't half as bad as 'twas made out to be; and I told 'em that some folks did change their minds about as often as they opened their mouths."

"Did you say that to customers?" asked Peter, who always had an eye and ear to business; but at that moment, Mr. George, the school committeeman, came in, and temporarily saved the talkative clerk from the censure that he justly deserved.

"Mornin', Mr. George," said Alick, who was grateful for his timely appearance. Peter grunted some unintelligible greeting, while Mr. Blake bowed stiffly and turned away. Alick wanted to make Mr. George uncomfortable as soon as possible, and came to the point at once, by asking, "Hear the news?"

"News, what news?" queried Mr. George.

Alick was something of an actor, and to further perplex the school committeeman, dropped the measure of potatoes that he was holding, and stared at him in astonishment.

"You ain't heard!" he gasped, after a pause of appropriate length.

"If you've got anything to say—say it," snapped Mr. George, impatiently.

"Mr. Flint—" Alick began, but Mr. George interrupted him.

"Not dead!" he exclaimed, as he turned toward the undertaker, and a look of dread spread over his face.

"No," replied Alick, slowly, "at least he wa'n't the last I heard, but—"

"Out with it, tell me!" demanded Mr. George.

"He's got the smallpox," said Alick, quietly.

Mr. George was wholly unprepared for the shock. His nerves had been so seriously irritated of late, that the distressing news concerning his beloved pastor almost unmanned him. Without giving his victim time to recover, Alick continued: "But that ain't the best part of it."

"The best part of it!" repeated Mr. George, in amazement. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," said Alick, gleefully, "that they couldn't get anybody to take care of him until Miss Barbara Wallace came along, and, without being asked, took her life in her hands and stepped in where nobody else dared to go."

If Alick had struck him in the face, Mr. George could not have been more surprised. "You see," Alick went on, "there's somethin' good about her, after all."

"No doubt—no doubt," coughed Mr. George, in a dazed sort of way. "I must look into the matter. Very commendable, certainly." With that he backed out of the store.

"The old hard-shelled stiff-back," muttered Alick, as he shook his fist in the direction of the door.

"You've given him something to think about," said Mr. Blake.

As Mr. George walked toward the home of Mr. Flint, he summed up his chances for reËlection, and found them very slim. When he arrived at the parsonage, or, rather, the farthest point from it to which he thought Sam Billings's voice would carry, he stopped and gazed upon the modest dwelling and its gaudy decoration. Sam spied him, and hailed him gleefully. Mr. George asked for details, and got them wonderfully elaborated by Sam's imaginative mind.

When Sam had finished his story he began asking impertinent questions—questions that made the school committee-man's conscience turn somersaults as he walked quickly away. Later in the day he drove about town, and notified the members of the school committee that there would be a special meeting that evening.

That afternoon there was an especially-special meeting of the Morning Glory Club, at the home of Mrs. Blake. The club-women knew that the meeting had been called for the purpose of expelling Barbara Wallace from the club, and to take some action in regard to making public the fact that the club was not in any way responsible for the costume that she had worn in the theatricals, and many other harsh and terrible, though very indefinite things, but Barbara had unknowingly frustrated their plans.

A moment after the members had been called to order, a motion to adjourn was made and carried, and then they settled themselves for a delightful afternoon talking it over. Mrs. Tweedie appeared to be deeply affected by Barbara's brave act. "We may have misjudged Miss Wallace," she admitted, and then she talked about "atonement" and many other things about which none of us know but little. She tried to explain why she had turned Barbara out by admitting that she was vexed at the time, and only had meant that she expected her to find another boarding-place as soon as possible. "Indeed, how could I do otherwise in view of the unpleasant circumstances? And when she did not return that night at the usual time, no one could imagine my surprise."

"And I have no doubt," said Mrs. Jones, when Mrs. Tweedie had said all that she could to put herself on the right side, "not the slightest, but that Miss Wallace misunderstood me. Of course, I was not wholly in sympathy with her, but I really would not have refused, had I a room to spare." Mrs. Jones wiped away two tears which opportunely came to her eyes, caused, however, not by an excess of emotion, but by a cold in her head.

"True," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "we all have been cruelly misquoted, misunderstood, and misjudged."

Poor Mrs. Tweedie; poor, unfortunate Morning Glories. Now that Barbara must be vindicated, they wanted to pose as martyrs themselves.

"Did Mr. Flint—Will Flint I mean—call on any of you ladies yesterday?" asked Mrs. Thornton, after all had explained, to their own satisfaction, why they had treated Barbara as they had.

An impressive silence followed. Mrs. Stout snickered, despite her determination to hold her peace until the others were talked out.

"Really," began Miss Sawyer, "I must confess that he called on me." Upon that others admitted that they, too, had been honoured.

"What did he say to you, Miss Sawyer?" asked Mrs. Darling, eagerly.

"He said a great deal, and was very much in earnest. He has changed greatly since I last—"

"Yes, indeed he has," interrupted Mrs. Thornton. "He's quite good-looking now."

"And," continued Miss Sawyer, "he spoke of the honour of a woman as being the most sacred thing, and—oh, he said so much in such a short time, and was so gentlemanly, that one could forgive him for saying anything." Miss Sawyer spoke rapidly, and when she had finished was blushing crimson.

"Oh!" exclaimed the ladies in chorus, and then they laughed at Miss Sawyer's discomfiture.

"He did make an impression on you, Miss Sawyer," simpered Mrs. Darling. "And was he as agreeable to you, Mrs. Tweedie?" the shallow young matron asked, meaningly, as she smiled on "the powerful." Mrs. Tweedie looked uncomfortable.

"The young man called," she replied, solemnly, "but our conversation was of a confidential nature."

No one ever knew just what Will did say to Mrs. Tweedie, but some guessed that his remarks to her were made more after the manner of the "other sex" than they were to the other women.

"I have heard," said Mrs. Blake, after a lull in the conversation, "that he was very violent with Mr. George."

"Oh, yes," piped Mrs. Browning, "he struck him, and threatened to shoot him if he didn't have Miss Wallace reinstated."

"And I haven't a doubt but what he'd do it," said Mrs. Thornton.

"I wonder if they're really engaged. Has anybody heard?" asked Mrs. Darling, who loved the affairs of lovers almost as much as she loved herself.

"Why don't you ask one of 'em?" said Mrs. Stout, abruptly. "That's about the only thing that any of you don't seem to be sure about."

Mrs. Darling's cheeks flushed slightly, but she wisely refrained from replying. "Perhaps some of you have noticed that I ain't said much to-day," continued Mrs. Stout, "and I want to tell you that one reason is because I've learned a lesson about talkin' too much from the woman that you've been talkin' about. But there's one or two things that I've just got to say. There's been a lot said about bein' misunderstood, and such. What was said about Miss Wallace was plain enough when it was said. What was done—was done; but there ain't one woman, not a livin' one, that's said, or done, one thing to make good the harm they've done her—except to stop sayin' bad things. That's somethin', but it ain't enough; now she's tryin' to save the life of the man that did more than anybody else to take away her good name, and riskin' her own life doin' it. You all know better than you did before what kind of a woman she is. Now, I ain't goin' to say all of the hard things that I was goin' to say, and wanted to say, but what I want to know is, what are we, this club, goin' to do to show her that we made a mistake and are sorry, and by doin' it show everybody that we ain't a set of mean, narrow-minded women?"

"What would you suggest?" Mrs. Tweedie calmly asked.

"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, "we can never pay her in any way for the wrong that's been done her, but we can show her that we'd like to. I move that we send a letter to the school committee, and every mother's son of us sign it, askin' them to give Miss Wallace back her school, and say that we know her to be a woman with a character as good as anybody's, and better than most folks, and that we believe she's been in the right in everything that she's said or done since we've known her. If the motion don't go, it's more'n likely that I shall forget my good resolution about not sayin' things." Mrs. Stout sat down, utterly out of breath, and mopped her face while a slight murmur of surprise ran about the room. The motion was seconded, and the question put without debate.

"It is a unanimous vote," Mrs. Tweedie announced. Mrs. Stout smiled. She well knew that some of them hated to do it, but they wanted to be on the popular side, and this time it happened to be right.

"Well," she said, quizzically, as she looked about at the comically sad-faced women, "I must say that you're the glumist lookin' lot of mornin' glories I ever see."