When Rachel dropped in for a tell, others were sure to follow. Laura, lying on her stomach on the hearthrug with a picture book propped up before her, or cutting out patterns from paper in a corner, would hear their voices rising and falling or dropping to a whisper when some item they were discussing was not considered suitable for children’s ears. She would sometimes long to ask questions, but dare not, for it was a strict rule there that children should be seen, but not heard. It was better not even to laugh when something funny was said, for that might call attention to oneself and some one might say: “That child’s gettin’ too knowin’. I hope she ain’t goin’ to turn out one of them forrard sort, for I can’t abide ‘em.” At that her mother would bridle and say that, far from being forward, she was rather young for her age, and as to being knowing, she didn’t suppose she had heard what was said, but had laughed because they were laughing. At the same time, she took care to send Laura upstairs, or out into the garden for something, when she thought the conversation was taking an unsuitable turn.

Sometimes one of them would let fall a remark about the vague far-distant days before the children were born. “My ole gran-fer used to say that all the land between here and the church wer’ left by will to th’ poor o’ th’ parish in the old times; all common land of turf and fuzz ‘twas then; but ‘twer’ all stole away an’ cut up into fields,” and another would agree: “Yes, so I’ve allus heard.”

Sometimes one of them would bring out some surprising saying, as Patty Wardup did when the rest of the company were discussing Mrs. Eames’s fur cape: she couldn’t have bought it and it certainly did not grow upon her back, yet she had appeared in it last Sunday at church, and not so much as a word to anybody as to how she had got it. True, as Mrs. Baker suggested, it did look something like a coachman’s shoulder tippet—dark, thick fur, bearskin, they called it—and she had once said she had a brother who was a coachman somewhere up country. Then Patty, who had been pensively twisting her doorkey between her fingers and taking no part in the conversation, said quietly: “The golden ball rolls to everybody’s feet once in a lifetime. That’s what my Uncle Jarvis used to say and I’ve seen it myself, over and over.”

What golden ball? And who was her Uncle Jarvis? And what had a golden ball to do with Mrs. Eames’s fur tippet? No wonder they all laughed and said, “She’s dreaming as usual!”