“She wa’n’t within half a mile of the mill when I met her, yet she was pantin’ an’ all out o’ breath then. She’ll be late, ‘course, an’ you know what that means.”
“Yes, I know,” sighed Mrs. Durgin, sympathetically. “She—she hadn’t orter gone.”
Across the room Mrs. Magoon’s head came up with a jerk.
“Don’t ye s’pose I know that? The child’s sick, an’ I know it. But what diff’rence does that make? She works, don’t she?”
For a moment Mrs. Durgin did not speak. Gradually her eyes drifted back to Maggie and the little pile of coins on the table.
“Mis’ Magoon, see,” she cried eagerly, “what the lady give Maggie. They was in one o’ them ‘nauty-mobiles,’ as Maggie calls ’em, an’ Maggie felled down in the road. She wa’n’t hurt a mite—not even scratched, but they give her all this money.”
The woman on the other side of the room sniffed disdainfully.
“Well, what of it? They’d oughter give it to her,” she asserted.
“But they wa’n’t ter blame, an’ they didn’t hurt her none—not a mite,” argued the other.
“No thanks ter them, I’ll warrant,” snapped Mrs. Magoon. “For my part, I wouldn’t tech their old money.” Then, crossly, but with undeniable interest, she asked: “How much was it?”