from the old one that more and more the
hallucination was with her that she had become another creature, and the
old life had gone out forever.

Of course as striking-looking a girl as Betty could not enter into the
life of a little town even as humbly as through the Carson home, without
causing some comment and speculation. People began to notice her. The
church ladies looked after her and remarked on her hair, her complexion,
and her graceful carriage, and some shook their heads and said they
should think Mrs. Hathaway would want to know a little more about her
before she put her only child in her entire charge; and they told weird
stories about girls they had known or heard of.

Down at the fire-house, which was the real clearing-house of Tinsdale
for all the gossip that came along and went the rounds, they took up the
matter in full session several evenings in succession. Some of the
younger members made crude remarks about Betty's looks, and some of the
older ones allowed that she was entirely too pretty to be without a
history. They took great liberties with their surmises. The only two,
the youngest of them all, who might have defended her, had been
unconsciously snubbed by her when they tried to be what Bobbie called
"fresh" with her, and so she was at their mercy. But if she had known it
she probably would have been little disturbed. They seemed so far
removed from her two worlds, so utterly apart from herself. It would not
have occurred to her that they could do her any harm.

One night the fire-house gang had all assembled save one, a little
shrimp of a good-for-nothing, nearly hairless, toothless, cunning-eyed,
and given to drink when he could lay lips on any. He had a wide loose
mouth with a tendency to droop crookedly, and his hands were always
clammy and limp. He ordinarily sat tilted back against the wall to the
right of the engine, sucking an old clay pipe. He had a way of often
turning the conversation to imply some deep mystery known only to
himself behind the life of almost any one discussed. He often added
choice embellishments to whatever tale went forth as authentic to go the
rounds of the village, and he acted the part of a collector of themes
and details for the evening conversations.

His name was Abijah Gage.

"Bi not come yet?" asked the fire chief settling a straw comfortably
between his teeth and looking around on the group. "Must be somepin'
doin'. Don't know when Bi's been away."