“Well, I never!” exclaimed her mother, in a subdued but irascible tone. “There you go—a-lookin’ right square at her, when I didn’t want that she sh’u’d know we saw her! It does seem to me sometimes, Emarine, that you ain’t got good sense.”
“I’d just as soon she knew we saw her,” said Emarine, unmoved. “It’s Miss Presly, maw.”
“Oh, land o’ goodness! That old sticktight? She’ll stay all day if she stays a minute. Set an’ set! An’ there I’ve just got the washin’ all out on the line, an’ she’ll tell the whole town we wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin! Are you sure it’s her? It don’t look overly like her shawl.”
“Yes, it’s her.”
“Well, go on an’ stop an’ talk to her, so ’s to give me a chance to red up some. Don’t ferget the ball bluin’, Emarine.”
Emarine went down the path and met the visitor just between the two tall lilac trees, whose buds were beginning to swell.
“Good mornin’, Miss Presly.”
“Why, good mornin’, Emarine. Z’ your maw to home?”
“Yes ’m.”
“I thought I’d run down an’ set a spell with her, an’ pass the news.”