Part 4 (1/2)

”I guess she's about as usual. She didn't say but what she was.”

”She ain't left off her school, has she?”

”No,” replied Mrs. Field, stiffly, ”she ain't.”

Suddenly Mrs. Green stopped and laid a heavy hand on Mrs. Field's arm. ”Look here, Mis' Field, I dun'no' as you'll thank me for it, but I'm goin' to speak real plain to you, the way I'd thank anybody to if 'twas my Jenny. I'm dreadful afraid you don't realize how bad Lois is, Mis' Field.”

”Mebbe I don't.” Mrs. Field's voice sounded hard.

The other woman looked perplexedly at her for a moment, then she went on:

”Well, if you do, mebbe I hadn't ought to said anything; but I was dreadful afraid you didn't, an' then when you come to, perhaps when 'twas too late, you'd never forgive yourself. She hadn't ought to teach school another day, Mis' Field.”

”I dun'no how it's goin' to be helped,” Mrs. Field said again, in her hard voice.

”Mis' Field, I know it ain't any of my business, an' I don't know but you'll think I'm interferin'; but I can't help it nohow when I think of--my Abby, an' how--she went down. _Ain't_ you got anybody that could help you a little while till she gets better an' able to work?”

”I dun'no' of anybody.”

”Wouldn't your sister's husband's father? Ain't he got considerable property?”

Mrs. Field turned suddenly, her voice sharpened, ”I've asked him all I'm ever goin' to--there! I let Esther's husband have fifteen hundred dollars that my poor husband saved out of his hard earnin's, an' he lost it in his business; an' after he died I wrote to his father, an'

I told him about it. I thought mebbe he'd be willin' to be fair, an'

pay his son's debts, if he didn't have much feelin'. There was Esther an' Lois an' me, an' not a cent to live on, an' Esther she was beginnin' to be feeble. But he jest sent me back my letter, an' he'd wrote on the back of it that he wa'n't responsible for any of his son's debts. I said then I'd never go to him agin, and I didn't; an'

Esther didn't when she was sick an' dyin'; an' I never let him know when she died, an' I don't s'pose he knows she is dead to this day.”

”Oh, Mis' Field, you didn't have to lose all that money!”

”Yes, I did, every dollar of it.”

”I declare it's wicked.”

”There's a good many things that's wicked, an' sometimes I think some things ain't wicked that we've always thought was. I don't know but the Lord meant everybody to have what belonged to them in spite of everything.”

Mrs. Green stared. ”I guess I don't know jest what you mean, Mis'

Field.”

”I meant everybody ought to have what's their just due, an' I believe the Lord will uphold them in it. I've about come to the conclusion that folks ought to lay hold of justice themselves if there ain't no other way, an' that's what we've got hands for.” Suddenly Mrs.

Field's manner changed. ”I know Lois hadn't ought to be teachin'

school as well as you do,” said she. ”I ain't said much about it, it ain't my way, but I've known it all the time.”

”She'd ought to take a vacation, Mis' Field, an' get away from here for a spell. Folks say Green River ain't very healthy. They say these low meadow-lands are bad. I worried enough about it after my Abby died, thinkin' what might have been done. It does seem to me that if something was done right away, Lois might get up; but there ain't no use waitin'. I've seen young girls go down; it seems sometimes as if there wa'n't nothin' more to them than flowers, an' they fade away in a day. I've been all through it. Mis' Field, you don't mind my speakin' so, do you? Oh, Mis' Field, don't feel so bad! I'm real sorry I said anythin'.”

Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. ”I ain't--blamin' you,” she said, brokenly.

Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. ”Mis' Field, I wouldn't have spoken a word, but--I felt as if something ought to be done, if there could be; an'--I thought--so much about my--poor Abby. Lois always makes me think of her; she's jest about her build; an'--I didn't know as you--realized.”