"But now she's perfectly well, and
still a-hanging on. No wonder folks are talking."
"Who's talking?" thundered Strong.
"Didn't you know?" simpered Mrs. Willoughby, not knowing herself
nor caring, so long as the suspicion grew.
"Know what?" yelled the excited deacon. Mrs. Willoughby
floundered. Miss Perkins rushed into the breach.
"Well, if _I_ was deacon of this church, it seems to me I'd know
something about what's going on in it."
"What IS goin' on?" shrieked the now desperate deacon.
The women looked at him pityingly, exchanged knowing glances,
then shook their heads at his hopeless stupidity.
Strong was not accustomed to criticism. He prided himself upon
his acuteness, and was, above all, vain about his connection with
the church. He looked from one woman to the other. He was
seething with helpless rage. The little deacon at his side
coughed nervously. Strong's pent up wrath exploded. "Why didn't
YOU tell me, Elverson, that people was a-talkin'," he roared in
the frightened man's ear.
Elverson sputtered and stammered, but nothing definite came of
the sounds; so Strong again turned to Miss Perkins:
"What is going on?" he demanded.
The spinster shrugged her shoulders and lifted her eyes
heavenward, knowing that nothing could so madden the deacon as
this mysterious inference of things too terrible to mention.
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