MRS. VERNON. But such an all fired smell—what're you burnin'?
LIZBETH. Dog fannel—
MRS. VERNON. I thought so. It's nearly turned my stomich—come, hurry with this ironin' now.
LIZBETH. [Coming down right of table.] Let's leave it till mornin', ma—
MRS. VERNON. Can't, Lizbeth, it's bin put off since Wednesday, an' the furst thing we know we'll be havin' it to do Sunday—get me another iron. [LIZBETH goes left.] I'm reg'lar tuckered out.
LIZBETH. Me too. [Sound of sledge hammer from door left. LIZBETH exits.
MRS. VERNON sits on rocker and fans herself with frayed-out palm leaf.
MRS. VERNON. Lor'—to think o' this weather in June. It's jis' terrible.
Enter KATE. She is neatly gowned and is of a superior clay.
KATE. Mother—