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It was some time before the true meaning of the new arrangement penetrated Miss Dyer’s slower intelligence; but presently she drew her chair nearer the window and thought a little, chuckling as she did so. She, too, was alone.

The sensation was new and very pleasant. Mrs. Blair went back and forth through the closet-lane, putting her clothes away, with high good humor. Once or twice she sang a little–Derby’s Ram and Lord Lovel–in a cracked voice. She was in love with solitude.

Just before tea, Mrs. Mitchell, in some trepidation, knocked at the door, to see the fruits of contention present and to come. She had expected to hear loud words; and the silence quite terrified her, emphasizing, as it did, her own guilty sense of personal responsibility. Miss Dyer gave one appealing look at Mrs. Blair, and then, with some indecision, went to open the door, for the latch was in her house.

“Well, here you are, comfortably settled!” began Mrs. Mitchell. She had the unmistakable tone of professional kindliness; yet it rang clear and true. “May I come in?”

“Set right down here,” answered Miss Dyer, drawing forward a chair. “I’m real pleased to see ye.”

“And how are you this afternoon?” This was addressed to the occupant of the other house, who, quite oblivious to any alien presence, stood busily rubbing the chalk-marks from her dress.

Mrs. Blair made no answer. She might have been stone deaf, and as dumb as the hearthstone bricks. Mrs. Mitchell cast an alarmed glance at her entertainer.

“Isn’t she well?” she said, softly.

“It’s a real pretty day, ain’t it?” responded Miss Dyer. “If ’twas summer time, I should think there’d be a sea turn afore night. I like a sea turn myself. It smells jest like Old Boar’s Head.”

“I have brought you down some fruit.” Mrs. Mitchell was still anxiously observing the silent figure, now absorbed in an apparently futile search in a brocaded work-bag. “Mrs. Blair, do you ever cut up bananas and oranges together?”

No answer. The visitor rose, and unwittingly stepped across the dividing line.

“Mrs. Blair–” she began, but she got no further.

Her hostess turned upon her, in surprised welcome.

“Well, if it ain’t Mis’ Mitchell! I can’t say I didn’t expect you, for I see you goin’ into Miss Dyer’s house not more’n two minutes ago. Seems to me you make short calls. Now set right down here, where you can see out o’ the winder. That square’s cracked, but I guess the directors’ll put in another.”

Mrs. Mitchell was amazed, but entirely interested. It was many a long day since any person, official or private, had met with cordiality from this quarter.

“I hope you and our friend are going to enjoy your room together,” she essayed, with a hollow cheerfulness.

“I expect to be as gay as a cricket,” returned Mrs. Blair, innocently. “An’ I do trust I’ve got good neighbors. I like to keep to myself, but if I’ve got a neighbor, I want her to be somebody you can depend upon.”

“I’m sure Miss Dyer means to be very neighborly.” The director turned, with a smile, to include that lady in the conversation. But the local deafness had engulfed her. She was sitting peacefully by the window, with the air of one retired within herself, to think her own very remote thoughts. The visitor mentally improvised a little theory, and it seemed to fit the occasion. They had quarrelled, she thought, and each was disturbed at any notice bestowed on the other.

“I have been wondering whether you would both like to go sleighing with me some afternoon?” she ventured, with the humility so prone to assail humankind in a frank and shrewish presence. “The roads are in wonderful condition, and I don’t believe you’d take cold. Do you know, I found Grandmother Eaton’s foot-warmers, the other day! I’ll bring them along.”

“Law! I’d go anywheres to git out o’ here,” said Mrs. Blair, ruthlessly. “I dunno when I’ve set behind a horse, either. I guess the last time was the day I rid up here for good, an’ then I didn’t feel much like lookin’ at outdoor. Well, I guess you be a new director, or you never’d ha’ thought on’t!”