Jane Field | Page 3

be in such a hurry," said she, using the village
formula of hospitality to a departing guest.
"It don't seem to me I've been in much of a hurry. I've stayed here the
whole afternoon."
Suddenly Mrs. Babcock, pinning on her shawl, thrust her face close to
Amanda's. "I want to know if it's true Lois Field is so miserable?" she
whispered.
"Well, I dun'no'. She don't look jest right, but she an' her mother won't
own up but what she's well."
"Goin' the way Mis' Maxwell did, ain't she?"
"I dun'no'. I'm worried about her myself--dreadful worried. Lois is a
nice girl as ever was."

"She ain't give up her school?"
Amanda shook her head.
"I shouldn't think her mother'd have her."
"I s'pose she feels as if she'd got to." Mrs. Babcock dropped her voice
still lower. "They're real poor, ain't they?"
"I guess they ain't got much."
"I s'pose they hadn't. Well, I hope Lois ain't goin' down. I heard she
looked dreadful. Mis' Jackson she was in yesterday, talkin' about it.
Well, you come over an' see me, Mandy. Bring your sewin' over some
afternoon."
"Well, mebbe I will. I don't go out a great deal, you know."
The two women grimaced to each other in a friendly fashion, then
Amanda shut her door, and Mrs. Babcock pattered softly and heavily
across the little entry, and opened Mrs. Field's door. She pressed the old
brass latch with a slight show of ceremonious hesitancy, but she never
thought of knocking. There was no one in the room, which had a clean
and sparse air. The chairs all stood back against the walls, and left in
the centre a wide extent of faded carpet, full of shadowy gray scrolls.
Mrs. Babcock stood for a moment staring in and listening.
There was a faint sound of a voice seemingly from a room beyond. She
called, softly, "Mis' Field!" There was no response. She advanced then
resolutely over the stretch of carpet toward the bedroom door. She
opened it, then gave a little embarrassed grunt, and began backing
away.
Mrs. Field was in there, kneeling beside the bed, praying. She started
and looked up at Mrs. Babcock with a kind of solemn abashedness, her
long face flushed. Then she got up. "Good-afternoon," said she.
"Good-afternoon," returned Mrs. Babcock. She tried to smile and

recover her equanimity. "I've been into Mandy Pratt's," she went on,
"an' I thought I'd jest look in here a minute before I went home, but I
wouldn't have come in so if I'd known you was--busy."
"Come out in the other room an' sit down," said Mrs. Field.
Mrs. Babcock's agitated bulk followed her over the gray carpet, and
settled into the rocking-chair at one of the front windows. Mrs. Field
seated herself at the other.
"It's been a pleasant day, ain't it?" said she.
"Real pleasant. I told Mr. Babcock this noon that I was goin' to git out
somewheres this afternoon come what would. I've been cooped up all
the spring house-cleanin', an' now I'm goin' to git out. I dun'no' when
I've been anywhere. I ain't been into Mandy's sence Christmas that I
know of--I ain't been in to set down, anyway; an' I've been meanin' to
run in an' see you all winter, Mis' Field." All the trace of confusion now
left in Mrs. Babcock's manner was a weak volubility.
"It's about all anybody can do to do their housework, if they do it
thorough," returned Mrs. Field. "I s'pose you've been takin' up carpets?"
"Took up every carpet in the house. I do every year. Some folks don't,
but I can't stand it. I'm afraid of moths, too. I s'pose you've got your
cleanin' all done?"
"Yes, I've got it about done."
"Well, I shouldn't think you could do so much, Mis' Field, with your
hands."
Mrs. Field's hands lay in her lap, yellow and heavily corrugated, the
finger-joints in great knots, which looked as if they had been tied in the
bone. Mrs. Babcock eyed them pitilessly.
"How are they now?" she inquired. "Seems to me they look worse than
they used to."

Mrs. Field regarded her hands with a staid, melancholy air. "Well, I
dun'no'."
"Seems to me they look worse. How's Lois, Mis' Field?"
"She's pretty well, I guess. I dun'no' why she ain't."
"Somebody was sayin' the other day that she looked dreadfully."
Mrs. Field had heretofore held herself with a certain slow dignity. Now
her manner suddenly changed, and she spoke fast. "I dun'no' what folks
mean talkin' so," said she. "Lois ain't been lookin' very well, as I know
of, lately; but it's the spring of the year, an' she's always apt to feel it."
"Mebbe that is it," replied the other, with a doubtful inflection. "Let's
see,