"Deacon Amos Whittle is, so to say, a contractor," said the Judge
ponderously, "and so, in a way, am I."

"A contractor?" puzzled Lydia. "Yes; but I--"

"If you'll just give over everything into our hands connected with
putting the old place into A-number-one shape, I think you'll find
you can dismiss the whole matter from your mind. In two months' time,
my dear young lady, we'll guarantee to pass the house over to you in
apple-pie order, good as new, if not better.... Yes, indeed; better!"

The Judge eyed his empty saucer regretfully.

"That's the best ice cream--" he added with total irrelevance. "Have
some, won't you? I hear they're passing it out free and permiscuous
in the back room."

"I think we should like some cream, if you please, Judge Fulsom,"
said Lydia, "if you'll keep us company."

"Oh, I'll keep company with you, as far as strawberry ice cream's
concerned," chuckled the Judge, his big bulk shaking with humor. "But
I see Mis' Fulsom over there; she's got her weather eye on us. Now,
watch me skeedaddle for that cream! Pink, white or brown, Miss Orr;
or, all three mixed? There's a young fellow out there in charge of
the freezers that sure is a wonder. How about you, Fanny?"

The two girls looked at each other with a smile of understanding as
the big figure of the Judge moved ponderously away.