"Oh, no ma'am. I gotta get right back home to Ma. She's not very well, an' she'll be needin' me."
"Fer land sakes! you don't say so, Maurice. Is she very bad?" The tones were sympathetic now. Maurice nodded, and glanced longingly at the fresh batch of brown cookies.
"She was carryin' the big meat-platter on her arm an' she fell with her arm under her—an' broke it."
"Lord love us!" Mrs. Wilson started to undo her apron. "Why didn't you tell me before, you freckle-faced jackass, you! Lord knows what use you boys are anyways! Think of you, hangin' 'round here askin' fer Billy and your poor Ma at home groanin' in pain an' needin' help. Ain't you 'shamed of yourself?"
"Yes ma'am," admitted Maurice cheerfully. "I guess I should'a told you first off but Ma she said if you was busy not to say anythin' 'bout her breakin' it."
"Well, we'll see about that. No neighbor in this here settlement is ever goin' to say that Mary Wilson ever turned her back on a feller-bein's distress. I'll go right over to your place with you now, Maurice. Come along."
Mrs. Wilson was outside, by this time, and tying on her sun-bonnet. Maurice held back. She grasped his arm and hustled him down the walk.
"Is it broke bad, Maurice?" she asked anxiously.
Maurice, peering about among the trees, answered absently.
"Yes ma'am. I guess she'll never be able to use it ag'in."