e could
not do. Betty gathered that the shilling a week would be a drain on the
parish funds, and would so raise the old creature to affluence that she
would feel she could defy fate. And the contumacity of old men and women
should not be strengthened by the reckless bestowal of shillings.

Knowing that Miss Vanderpoel had already gained influence among the
village people, Mrs. Brent said, she had come to ask her if she would
see old Mrs. Welden and argue with her in such a manner as would
convince her that the workhouse was the best place for her. It was, of
course, so much pleasanter if these old people could be induced to go to
Brexley willingly.

"Shall I be undermining the whole Political Economy of Stornham if I
take care of her myself?" suggested Betty.

"You--you will lead others to expect the same thing will be done for
them."

"When one has resources to draw on," Miss Vanderpoel commented, "in
the case of a woman who has lived eighty-three years and brought up ten
children until they were old and strong enough to leave her to take care
of herself, it is difficult for the weak of mind to apply the laws of
Political Economics. I will go and see old Mrs. Welden."

If the Vanderpoels would provide for all the obstinate old men and women
in the parish, the Political Economics of Stornham would proffer no
marked objections. "A good many Americans," Mrs. Brent reflected,
"seemed to have those odd, lavish ways," as witness Lady Anstruthers
herself, on her first introduction to village life. Miss Vanderpoel was
evidently a much stronger character, and extremely clever, and somehow
the stream of the American fortune was at last being directed towards
Stornham--which, of course, should have happened long ago. A good deal
was "being done," and the whole situation looked more promising. So was
the matter discussed and summed up, the same evening after dinner, at
the vicarage.

Betty found old Mrs. Welden's cottage. It was in a green lane, turning
from the village street--which was almost a green lane itself. A tiny
hedged-in front garden was before the cottage door. A crazy-looking
wicket gate was in the hedge, and a fuschia bush and a few old roses
were in the few yards of garden. There were actually two or three
geraniums in the window, showing cheerful scarlet between the short,
white dimity curtains.

"A house this size and of this poverty in an American village," was
Betty's thought, "would be a bare and stra