are diggin’ a hole,” she declared presently. “A good deep one; whatever can they be settin’ out to do?” For an interval she looked on with interest. Then suddenly she exclaimed in an excited voice: “They’re goin’ to bury somethin’! My land! What do you s’pose it is? Somethin’ all done up in a bag!” She forced the binoculars 85 into Lucy’s hand. “You look and see if you can’t make out.” 85 Lucy scanned the scene with mild inquisitiveness. “They have a canvas sack,” she said, “and evidently they are trying to bury it.” She handed the glass back to Ellen. “They act as if they were in an almighty hurry,” observed Ellen, as she looked. “They keep watchin’ to see if anybody’s comin’. Likely they’re afraid Martin will catch ’em. I wish he would. What do you reckon is in that bag? I’d give worlds to know.” “I can’t imagine.” Lucy had returned to her cleaning and was busy wringing out the mop. The doings of the women next door failed to interest her. But not so Ellen who, tense with speculation, hovered at the casement. “They’ve got the hole dug,” she announced triumphantly, “an’ they’re lowerin’ the bag into it. It must be heavy ’cause they seem to be havin’ a hard time lettin’ it down in. They act as if they were afraid to touch the thing. What can it be?” she repeated for the twentieth time. “I don’t know,” Lucy replied wearily. 86 86 She was tired and hungry and wished Ellen would abandon spying on her neighbors and give her a helping hand. “Yes,” commented Ellen from the window, “those women handle that bag as if they had a chiny image in it. I can’t for the life of me figger out what can be in it.” For an interval there was silence. Lucy set the mop and pail out in the hall and began to clean the paint. “They’ve started to cover it up,” chronicled Ellen, after a pause. “They’re shovelin’ in the dirt—at least Mary and Jane are; Eliza’s stopped helpin’ ’em an’ gone to see if anybody’s comin’. There’s somethin’ dretful queer about it all. Don’t you think so?”
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