“Nothin’ ails me, maw.”
“There does, too, somethin’ ail you. I guess I know. Now, what is it? You might just as well spit it right out an’ be done with it.”
Zarelda was silent. She began brushing her hair with a dingy brush from which tufts of bristles had been worn in several places. Her mother watched her patiently for a few moments, then she said—“Well, ’Reldy, be you goin’ to tell me what ails you?”
Still there was no reply.
“You ain’t turned off in the fact’ry, be you?”
Zarelda shook her head.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Winser slowly, as if reluctantly admitting a thought that she had been repelling, “it’s somethin’ about Jim Sheppard.”
The girl paled and brushed her hair over her face to screen it from her mother’s searching gaze.
“Have you fell out with him?”
“No, I ain’t fell out with him. Hadn’t you best eat your supper before it gets cold, maw?”