“Yes,” said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her monosyllable like an expletive.

Sylvia nodded sympathizingly.  “Some of them write for the papers, I suppose?” said she.

“Some of them.  I know it’s my bread-and-butter to have them, but I never saw such a parcel of folks.  Talk about eyes in the backs of heads, they’re all eyes and all ears.  Sometimes I think they ain’t nothing except eyes and ears and tongue.  But there’s a lot besides who like to think maybe they’re eating poison.  I know I’m watched every time I stir up a mite of cake, but I stir away.”

“You must have your hands full.”

“Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and help.”

“She ain’t good for much.”

“No, she ain’t.  She’s thinkin’ all the time of how she looks, instead of what she’s doing.  She waits on table, though, and helps wash dishes.  She generally forgets to pass the vegetables till the meat is all et up, and they’re lucky if they get any butter; but I can’t help it.  They only pay five dollars a week, and get a lot of enjoyment out of watching me and Hannah, and they can’t expect everything.”

The two women walked along the country road.  There were many other people besides the church-going throng in their Sunday best, but they seemed isolated, although closely watched.  Presently, however, a young man, well dressed in light gray, with a white waistcoat, approached them.

“Why, good-day, Miss Hart!” he said, raising his hat.

Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on.  She did not speak to him, but to Sylvia.  “He is staying at the hotel.  He writes for a New York paper,” she informed Sylvia, distinctly.

The young man laughed.  “And Miss Hart is going to write for it, too,” he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly.  “She is going to write an article upon how it feels to be suspected of a crime when one is innocent, and it will be the leading feature in next Sunday’s paper.  She is to have her picture appear with it, too, and photographs of her famous hotel and the room in which the murder was said to have been committed, aren’t you, Miss Hart?”

“Yes,” replied Lucinda, with stolidity.

Sylvia stared with amazement.  “Why, Lucinda!” she gasped.

“When I find out folks won’t take no, I give ’em yes,” said Lucinda, grimly.

“I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart,” said the young man, affably.  He was really very much of a gentleman.  He touched his hat, striking into a pleasant by-path across a field to a wood beyond.

“He’s crazy over the country,” remarked Lucinda; and then she was accosted again, by another gentleman.  This time he was older and stouter, and somewhat tired in his aspect, but every whit as genially persuasive.

“He writes for a New York paper,” said Lucinda to Sylvia, in exactly the same tone which she had used previously.  “He wants me to write a piece for his paper on my first twenty-four hours under suspicion of crime.”