The uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fall
at Grey Pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of young
laughter were no longer heard. Rivers saw too how distinctly the village
folk missed these gay young people. Mrs. Crocker, of the shop where
everything was to be bought, bewailed herself to Rivers, who was the
receiver of all manner of woes. "Mrs. Penhallow is getting to be so
particular no one knows where to find her. You would never think it, sir,
but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her
sugar from Philadelphia. It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as it
used to be--as if sugar wasn't always the same--"

"Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.

"And my tea!--Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and
roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had.
Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me--charge it to me--and a pound to
Mrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." He
accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the
little drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives as
clear.

Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten
minutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about the
sugar and the tea--worst she ever had. She--oh, Lord!--She wouldn't
listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from
town."

"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"