"Oh, nothing. . . . There was a visitor here last summer--I forget
her name, but she used to go about making water-colours in a mushroom
hat you might have bought for sixpence--quite a simple good creature:
and one day, drinking tea at the Minister's, she raised quite a laugh
by being so much concerned over your health. She said she'd seen the
doctor calling at your house almost every day with a little black
bag, and made sure there must have been an operation. She mistook Mr
Pamphlett for the doctor, if you ever heard tell of such
simple-mindedness."

"WHAT?"

"And the awkward part of it was," Miss Oliver continued in a musing
voice, searching her memory--"the awkward part was, poor Mrs
Pamphlett's being present."

"And you never told me, Cherry Oliver, until this moment!" exclaimed
the widow.

"One doesn't go about repeating every little trifle. . . . And, for
that matter, Mrs Pamphlett was just as much amused as everybody else.
'Well, the bare idea!' she cried out. 'I must speak to Pamphlett
about this! And Mary-Martha Polsue, of all women!' These were her
very words. But of course one had to say _something_ to explain to
the other innocent woman and stop her running on. So I told who you
were; and that, as everybody knew, you were a well-to-do woman, and
no doubt would feel a desire to consult your banker oftener than the
most of us."

"If you had money of your own, Cherry Oliver, you'd know how vulgar