"Left," shouted Gregory, without stopping to reconnoiter.
They crossed a field, boggy with snow-filled ruts, and climbed a low rise. Directly beneath lay an old farmhouse with a sagging brown roof and red window casings, dulled by generations of sun and storm. A woman in a blue apron moved across the brown, bare earth behind the house to a white chicken run. Jean thought of the Portuguese ranch where she and Herrick had gone on their honeymoon, with the silent woman and the cows wandering over the hills.
"It wasn't me, that's all; it just wasn't me."
A very old dog rose from the sunshine, sniffed dutifully as they came up on the stoop, and lay down again. Gregory knocked on the screen door, and a girl with a baby in her arms opened it. She listened without interest while Gregory explained, and went off without a word. In a moment they heard her shrill:
"Ma, oh ma!"
The woman who had been feeding the chickens appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She had a lumpy, overworked body, but her face had in it the patience of the earth, and there was something of spring in the pale blue eyes.
"Well, I guess we kin fix you up, seein' it's only for a couple of days. We couldn't take permanents yet, the spring cleanin' ain't done."
"There's the little room up back, ma?"
"How about the one over Uncle's? You could fix that up—it don't want much more than airin'."
Jean and Gregory waited while the two women settled the matter. The decision was in favor of the big one over Uncle John's.