“It don’t do no good ter watch the pot—‘twon’t b’ile no quicker,” she was saying now, her eyes on the woman who was anxiously scanning the road from the window.
“Yes, I know,” murmured Mrs. Durgin, resolutely turning her back on the window and going over to the bed. Sixty seconds later, however, she was again in her old position at the window, craning her neck to look far up the road.
“How’s Maggie doin’ now?” asked Mrs. Magoon.
“She’s asleep.”
“Well, she better be awake,” retorted Mrs. Magoon, “so’s ter keep her ma out o’ mischief. Come, come, Mis’ Durgin, why don’t ye settle down an’ do somethin’? Jest call it she ain’t a-comin’, then ’twill be all the more happyfyin’ surprise if she does.”
“But she is a-comin’.”
“How do ye know she is?”
“’Cause she’s Maggie Kendall, an’ she was Mag of the Alley: an’ Mag of the Alley don’t go back on her friends.”
“But she’s rich now.”
“I know she is, an’ you don’t think rich folks is any good; but I do, an’ thar’s the diff’rence. Mr. McGinnis has seen her, an’ he says she’s jest as nice as ever.”