Mrs. Endey spread a checked gingham apron on the ironing cloth. It was trimmed at the bottom with a ruffle, which she pulled and smoothed with careful fingers.
She selected an iron on the stove, set the wooden handle into it with a sharp, little click, and polished it on a piece of scorched newspaper. Then she moved it evenly across the starched apron. A shining path followed it.
At that moment some one opened the gate. Mrs. Endey stooped to peer through the vines.
“Well, ’f I ever ’n all my natcherl life!” she said, solemnly. She set the iron on its stand and lifted her figure erect. She placed one hand on her hip, and with the other rubbed her chin in perplexed thought. “If it ain’t Orville Parmer, you may shoot me! That beats me! I wonder ’f he thinks Emarine’s a-dyin’ o’ love fer him!”
Then a thought came that made her feel faint. She fell into a chair, weakly. “Oh, my land!” she said. “I wonder ’f that ain’t what’s the matter of her! I never’d thought o’ that. I’d thought o’ ev’rything but that. I wonder! There she’s lied flat o’ her back ever sence she fell out with him a month ago. Oh, my mercy! I wonder ’f that is it. Here I’ve b’en rackin’ my brains to find out what ails ’er.”
She got up stiffly and went to the door. The young man standing there had a pale, anxious face.
“Good-mornin’, Mis’ Endey,” he said. He looked with a kind of entreaty into her grim face. “I come to see Emarine.”
“Emarine’s sick.” She spoke coldly.
“I know she is, Mis’ Endey.” His voice shook, “If it wa’n’t fer her bein’ sick, I w’u’dn’t be here. I s’pose, after the way she sent me off, I ain’t got any spunk or I w’u’dn’t ’a’ come anyway; but I heard—”
He hesitated and looked away.