Jem Grindell had called a meeting for the following Wednesday of all the heads of committees for the bicentennial history, and, to spare Miss Tuttle the long flight of steps to the library, they had agreed to meet in the old brick schoolhouse. Long since abandoned as a school-house, it was used chiefly for the Ladies’ Aid sales, for an occasional exhibition of paintings, or for informal meetings. Old Pete had been alerted and had built a wood fire in the stove. The hard benches had been hauled out and set around a big square table.

Jem ponderously laid out a pencil and pad at each place. He had already spent a good deal of town money having special letter paper printed with “Willard Bicentennial, 1769–1969” in bold letters at the top. He was a born organizer when it came to such things, but not perhaps a man of great vision; he was passionate about detail. But no one else in the town cared enough in the special way that he did, and no one else would have taken on the onerous job of getting a town history written and in print. He himself had been working for nearly a year on the genealogies that would be the meat of the book, as far as he was concerned. The essays which he had commandeered on subjects such as local flora and fauna, the part women had played in the Civil War, the missionaries who had gone out from Willard, or the history of the schools he considered to be chiefly window dressing. It was a way, also, of casting a net out for possible buyers, for he himself had undertaken to finance the project, and hoped at least to cover expenses.

Christina, who had gone to fetch Jane Tuttle, was the first to drive up, and Jem hurried out to greet them. Old Pete, of course, was sitting on the fence, smoking his pipe and taking it all in.

“Why, there’s Old Pete,” said Miss Tuttle. “How are you, Pete?”

“As well as yourself, I hope.”

She laughed her whispery laugh.

“I hope much better.”

“My dog and I got a wildcat the other day.”

“Don’t tell me about it, Pete. You know how I hate to hear about the wild animals getting murdered,” she said lightly but firmly. “Well, Jem, you got this old creature to come out, and that took some doing, didn’t it?”

Beside her, so tiny and exquisite, her ruffled blouse tied with a blue velvet ribbon at the throat, Jem looked like a rather shabby elephant. At ninety, Miss Tuttle still held herself straight, but she seemed to have got smaller and smaller lately. She looked more than ever like a small bird a cold wind might blow away.

“You’d better come in out of the wind,” Christina said, taking her arm.