oney," said Mrs. White, tentatively.

"Some, I think," Barry answered; "but it was her father who was rich,
of course--"

"Certainly!" approved Mrs. Apostleman, fanning herself majestically.
"Rich as Croesus; multi-millionaire."

"Heavens alive!" said Mrs. Lloyd unaffectedly.

"Yes," Willard White eyed the tip of a cigar thoughtfully, "yes, I
remember he worked his own patents; had his own factories. Paul
Frothingham must have left something in the neighborhood of--well, two
or three millions--"

"Two or three!" echoed Mrs. Apostleman in regal scorn. "Make it eight!"

"Eight!" said Mrs. Brown faintly.

"Well, that would be about my estimate," Barry agreed.

"He was a big man, Frothingham," Dr. Brown said reflectively. "Well,
well, ladies, here's a chance for Santa Paloma to put her best foot
forward."

"What WON'T she do to the Hall!" Mrs. Adams remarked; Mrs. Carew sighed.

"It--it rather staggers one to think of trying to entertain a woman
worth eight millions, doesn't it?" said she.

CHAPTER V

From the moment of her arrival in Santa Paloma, when she stood on the
station platform with a brisk spring wind blowing her veil about her
face, and a small and chattering girl on each side of her, Mrs.
Burgoyne seemed inclined to meet the friendly overtures of her new
neighbors more than half-way. She remembered the baggage-agent's name
from her visit two weeks before--"thank Mr. Roberts for his trouble,
Ellen"--and met the aged driver of the one available carriage with a
ready "Good afternoon, Mr. Rivers!" Within a week she had her pew in
church, her box at the post-office, her membership in the library, and
a definite rumor was afloat to the effect that she had invested several
thousand dollars in the Mail, and that Barry Valentine had bought the
paper from old Rogers outright; and had ordered new rotary presses, and
was at last to have a free hand as managing editor. The pretty young
mistress of Holly Hall, with her two children dancing beside her, and
her ready pleased flush and greeting for new friends, became a familiar
figure in Santa Paloma's streets. She was even seen once or twice
across the river, in the mill colony, having, for some mysterious
reason, immediately opened the bridge that led from her own grounds to
that unsavory region.

She was not formal, not unapproachable, as it had been feared she might
be. On the contrary, she was curiously democratic. And, for a woman
straight from the