“Yes, she’s got a married daughter.” Mrs. Hanna closed her lips tightly together and looked as if she might say something, if she chose, that would create a sensation.
“Well, ain’t she got a good enough home to keep her mother in?”
“Yes, she has. But she got her home along with her husband, an’ he won’t have the old soul any more ’n M’lissy would.”
There was another silence. Isaphene had put the cake in the oven. She knelt on the floor and opened the door very softly now and then, to see that it was not browning too fast. The heat of the oven had crimsoned her face and arms.
“Guess you’d best put a piece o’ paper on top o’ that cake,” said her mother. “It smells kind o’ burny like.”
“It’s all right, maw.”
Mrs. Bridges looked out the window.
“Ain’t my flowers doin’ well, though, Mis’ Hanna?”
“They are that. When I come up the walk I couldn’t help thinkin’ of poor, old Mis’ Lane.”
“What’s that got to do with her?” Resentment bristled in Mrs. Bridges’s tone and look.