“Oh, yes! Mother taught me. Good-by. I must get back to my row.”
“Do you like hoeing?” Elliott called after her.
“I like to get it done.” The small figure skipped nimbly away.
“‘Get it done!’” Elliott addressed the next clump of waving green blades, pessimism in her voice. “After one row, isn’t there another, and another, and another, forever?” She slashed into a mat of chickweed with venom.
“I knew you’d get tired,” said Stannard, at her elbow. “Come on over to those trees and rest a bit. Sun’s getting hot here.”
Elliott looked at the clump of trees on the edge of the field. Their shade invited like a beckoning hand. Little beads of perspiration stood on her forehead. A warm lassitude spread through her body, turning her muscles slack. Hadn’t Gertrude said Aunt Jessica didn’t let them work in too hot a sun?
“You’re tired; quit it!” urged Stannard.
“Not just yet,” said Elliott, and her hoe bit at the ground again.