"Hetty," she called. Her voice faltered, and her eyes looked soft under wistful brows. "Hetty!"
Hetty was waiting, in a tremor of suspense.
"Well," she answered, her voice beating upon the word. "What is it?"
Still Lucy spoke with diffidence, as she always did when she touched upon her faith.
"I was only thinkin'—I dunno 's I can tell you, Hetty—but what you said yesterday, you know, about not believin' there's any God—I was goin' to ask you who you think made the trees an' flowers."
Hetty did not answer. She stood there, her hands trembling underneath her shawl. She gripped them, one upon the other, to keep from stretching them for alms.
"Well," she answered harshly. "Well!"
"Well," said Lucy gently, "that's all."
Hetty laughed out stridently.
"I'm goin' over to Mis' Flood's," said she, her hand upon the latch.