“If we were to examine the history of this town we might discover that the men have been not only generally outnumbered by the women but dominated by them. That those cold and rocky hill farms raised weak men and strong women is my guess. The strong men left even before the Civil War, and those who stayed either died in the war or came back from it changed.”

Jem looked at her with dreary amazement. It was, he considered, typical of women never to be able to stick to the subject in hand.

“Well, since you have been assigned the chapter on the women of Willard, there is nothing to prevent your saying your say, Christina.”

“I shall, Jem. I shall.” Christina was flushed, cross with herself for nearly losing her temper as she had—saved in the nick of time by Ellen’s cautionary glance.

“Now, Sally and Timothy Webster, it is your turn to speak.” Jem turned to them hopefully. Newcomers to the town in the last five years, they were rich, handsome, and generous, and still somewhat in awe of the local gentry such as Jem.

“We really don’t feel equipped for our task. You did mention on the telephone a possible chapter about the non-residents, but, well … what do you think, Tim?” Sally turned to her husband with relief. Tim was a lawyer and very good at laying the gist of any matter before a jury such as this.

“In the first place, I’d call a spade a spade. I think what you’re after is an assessment of what the summer people have meant to Willard. ‘Summer people’ has a ring to it—it contains, as a phrase, a certain amount of resentment, of course.”

Tim Webster looked around the table with a smile.

“Let’s face it,” Miss Plummer said warmly, “without the summer people the town would have died seventy or more years ago. The summer people rescued the town. Also they brought some men in.”

“Though not the kind Daniel Webster had in mind, perhaps,” Ellen added sotto voce.

“By 1878 Willard was a dead duck, I’ll grant you that.” Jim Heald, interested for the first time, leaned forward. “The mill had gone. There were fewer and fewer working farms. Second growth was covering the pasture-land. The town had no money to keep the roads up. The schools were terrible.”

“Well, if so, that’s one legend we might explode,” Christina said, “the legend of the little red schoolhouse.”

Jem had grown red in the face. He felt badgered and disregarded. “What’s the point of a bicentennial if all you’re interested in is tearing the town and all its history to pieces, I ask you!”

“Oh, come on, Jem,” Christina laughed, “we have a chance to do something really useful.”