right out of red-handled brooms. Nobody wanted 'em natural color,
striped, or blue. Henry, he says to me, 'What did you do to advertise
them red-handled brooms, Abby?' 'Why, papa,' says I, 'I swept off my
stoop and the front walk a couple of times, that's all.' 'Well,' he
says, 'broom-handles is as catching as measles, if you only get 'em
th' right color!' ... Git-ap, Dolly!"

"Well, did you _ever!_" breathed Miss Daggett excitedly, leaning out
of the buggy to gaze upon the scene of activity displayed on the
further side of the freshly-pruned hedge which divided Miss Lydia
Orr's property from the road: "Painters and carpenters and masons,
all going at once! And ain't that Jim Dodge out there in the side
yard talking to her? 'Tis, as sure as I'm alive! I wonder what _he's_
doing? Go right in, Abby!"

"I kind of hate to drive Dolly in on that fresh gravel," hesitated
Mrs. Daggett. "He's so heavy on his feet he'll muss it all up. Mebbe
I'd better hitch out in front."

"She sees us, Abby; go on in!" commanded Miss Daggett masterfully. "I
guess when it comes to that, her gravel ain't any better than other
folks' gravel."

Thus urged, Mrs. Daggett guided the sulky brown horse between the big
stone gateposts and brought him to a standstill under the somewhat
pretentious _porte-cochère_ of the Bolton house.

Lydia Orr was beside the vehicle in a moment, her face bright with
welcoming smiles.