"I dare say it's all a rumor," said Sylvia, soothingly.

Mrs. Ayres echoed her. "All a made-up story, I think," said she. "Go
right up-stairs, Lucy, and put it out of your head."

Lucy crept up-stairs with soft sobs, and they heard a door close.
Then the boy spoke again. "It's so, fast enough," he said, in a
whisper, "but there ain't any need for her to know it yet."

"No, there isn't, poor child," said Sylvia.

"She's dreadful nervous," said Mrs. Ayres, "and she thought a lot of
Miss Farrel--more, I guess, than most. The poor woman never was a
favorite here. I never knew why, and I guess nobody else ever did. I
don't care what she may have intimated--I mean what you were talking
about, Sylvia. That's all over. Lucy always seemed to like her, and
the poor child is so sensitive and nervous."

"Yes, she is dreadful nervous," said Sylvia.

"And I think she ate too much candy yesterday, too," said Mrs. Ayres.
"She made some candy from a recipe she found in the paper. I think
her stomach is sort of upset, too. I mean to make her think it's all
talk about Miss Farrel until she's more herself."

"I would," said Sylvia. "Poor child."

The grocer's boy made a motion to go. "I wonder if they'll hang her,"
he said, cheerfully.