Wicket, the village had plenty to talk about. Old Mrs. Ploughman said
nothing, but regarded her friends with a gloomy and thoughtful air. On
the other hand, Miss Beal, the dressmaker, saw no reason to keep her
opinions to herself. "It's a scandal," she said to her friend Mrs.
Grumble; "what with Eben Wicket scarcely cold in his grave, and John a
thief, with his neck broke and heaven only knows what else besides."

Nevertheless, that summer Noel Ploughman's sober, honest face was often
to be seen in Mrs. Wicket's garden patch, among the beans and the
lettuces. Who can say what they found in one another to admire? In
his company she was both happy and regretful, while he, seeing her by
turns quiet and gay, could not determine which he found more charming.
They talked over the weather together, and discussed the crops. Love
comes slowly in the north; there is time for every one to take a hand
in it. August passed without either having mentioned what was in their
hearts. Then Mrs. Ploughman made up her mind to put an end to it. One
day, when Noel was in Milford, she came to call on Mrs. Wicket. One
can imagine what she said to the young woman, who was already a mother
and a widow. The next day Mrs. Wicket appeared in her garden, pale and
composed. Those who had occasion to pass the little cottage at the
edge of the village, remarked that she no longer hummed under her
breath the gay tunes of her childhood.

"Her sin has found her out," said Miss Beal. "She's fallen by the way."

"You'd think," said Mrs. Crabbe, "she'd behave herself a speck, after
the life she's had."

Mrs. Grumble also was of the opinion that Mrs. Wicket had done wrong in
allowing herself to care for Noel Ploughman. For it seemed to the