The first house on the side street that ran at right angles to the main
thoroughfare, just below Rafferty's, was Duncannon's. A picket fence at
the side let into the vegetable gardens of the three, and the quiet
little Mrs. Duncannon with the rippley brown hair and soft brown eyes
often slipped through and made a morning call under cover of the kindly
pole beans that hid her entrances and exits perfectly from any green
holland shaded windows that might be open that way. Jane Duncannon
formed a third in this little combination.

On the Monday morning following the session meeting Mary Rafferty and
Christie McMertrie were at their respective pantry windows flinging
together some toothsome delicacies for the evening meal, that all might
move smoothly during the busy day.

A neat line of flopping clothes glimmered in each back yard over the
trim "green" that stretched across in front of the back door, and the
irons were on in both kitchens preparing for a finish as soon as a
"piece" should show signs of dry.

"Hev ye haird whut the extra session meetin' was called for, Mary?"
asked the older woman looking up from her mixing bowl. "Tom went to the
mill to tak the place of the noight watchman. His feyther's dyin' ye
ken, and Tom's not come by yet. I thot ye might hev haird."

Mary lifted her eyes with troubled glance: "Not yet," she said, "but I'm thinkin of running over to Duncannons as
soon as I get these pies in the oven. The clothes won't be dry for a
while, an' I'll take my pan of peas to shell. She'll know of course.
Maybe it's nothing much,--but Jim said they held up Mark Carter and
made him come in. It was ten minutes of ten before he got away--! You
don't suppose anybody's taken the gossip to the session do you?"