She rolled the unbleached cloth into a hard smooth bundle, with the scissors, thimble, and thread inside, and the needle quilted in.

“You ain't goin'?” said Amanda.

“Yes, I guess I must. I've got to be home by half-past five to get supper, an' I thought I'd jest look in at Mis' Field's a minute. Do you s'pose she's to home?”

“I shouldn't wonder if she was. I ain't seen her go out anywhere.”

“Well, I dun'no' when I've been in there, an' I dun'no' but she'd think it was kinder queer if I went right into the house and didn't go near her.”

Amanda arose, letting the mat slide to the floor, and went into the bedroom to get Mrs. Babcock's bonnet and light shawl.

“I wish you wouldn't 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, you called it consumption that ailed your sister, didn't you, Mis' Field?”

“I s'pose it was.”

Mrs. Babcock stared with cool reflection at the other woman's long, pale face, with its high cheek-bones and deep-set eyes and wide, drooping mouth. She was deliberating whether or not to ask for some information that she wanted. “Speakin' of your sister,” said she finally, with a casual air, “her husband's father is livin', ain't he?”

“He was the last I knew.”

“I s'pose he's worth considerable property?”

“Yes, I s'pose he is.”

“Well, I want to know. Somebody was speakin' about it the other day, an' they said they thought he did, an' I told 'em I didn't believe it. He never helped your sister's husband any, did he?”

Mrs. Field did not reply for a moment. Mrs. Babcock was leaning forward and smiling ingratiatingly, with keen eyes upon her face.

“I dun'no' as he did. But I guess Edward never expected he would much,” said she.

“Well, I told 'em I didn't believe he did. I declare! it seemed pretty tough, didn't it?”

“I dun'no'. I thought of it some along there when Edward was sick.”

“I declare, I should have thought you'd wrote to him about it.”

Mrs. Field said nothing.

“Didn't you ever?” Mrs. Babcock asked.

“Well, yes; I wrote once when he was first taken sick.”

“An' he didn't take any notice of it?”

Mrs. Field shook her head.

“He's a regular old skinflint, ain't he?” said Mrs. Babcock.

“I guess he's a pretty set kind of a man.”

“Set! I should call it more'n set. Now, Mis' Field, I'd really like to know something. I ain't curious, but I've heard so many stories about it that I'd really like to know the truth of it once. Somebody was speakin' about it the other day, an' it don't seem right for stories to be goin' the rounds when there ain't no truth in 'em. Mis' Field, what was it set Edward Maxwell's father agin' him?” Mrs. Babcock's voice sank to a whisper, she leaned farther forward, and gazed at Mrs. Field with crafty sweetness.

Mrs. Field looked out of the window.

“Well, I s'pose it was some trouble about money matters.”

“Money matters?”

“Yes, I s'pose so.”

“Mis' Field, what did he do?”

Mrs. Field did not reply. She looked out of the window at the green banks in front. Her face was inscrutable.

Mrs. Babcock drew herself up. “Course I don't want you to tell me nothin' you don't want to,” said