“Hunh!” said Emarine. She lifted her chin so high and so suddenly that her long earrings sent out flashes in all directions.
They had been married a full month when Mrs. Endey went to spend a day at the Palmer’s. She had a shrewd suspicion that all was not so tranquil there as it might be. She walked in unbidden and unannounced.
It was ten o’clock. The sun shown softly through the languid purple haze that brooded upon the valley. Crickets and grasshoppers crackled through the grasses and ferns. The noble mountains glimmered mistily in the distance.
Mrs. Palmer was sewing a patch on a tablecloth. Emarine was polishing silverware. “Oh!” she said, with a start. “You, is ’t?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Endey, sitting down, “me. I come to spen’ the day.”
“I didn’t hear yuh knock,” said Mrs. Palmer, dryly. She was tall and stoop-shouldered. She had a thin, sour face and white hair. One knew, only to look at her, that life had given her all its bitters and but few of its sweets.
“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Endey, “seein’ I didn’t knock. I don’t knock at my own daughter’s door. Well, forever! Do you patch table-cloths, Mis’ Parmer? I never hear tell! I have see darnt ones, but I never see a patched one.” She laughed aggravatingly.
“Oh, that’s nothin’,” said Emarine, over her shoulder, “we have ’em made out o’ flour sacks here, fer breakfas’.”
Then Mrs. Palmer laughed—a thin, bitter laugh. Her face was crimson. “Yaas,” she said, “I use patched table-cloths, an’ table-cloths made out o’ flour sacks; but I never did wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in my life.”
Then there was a silence. Emarine gave her mother a look, as much as to say—“What do you think of that?” Mrs. Endey smiled. “Thank mercy!” she said. “Dog-days’ll soon be over. The smoke’s liftin’ a leetle. I guess you an’ Orville’ll git your house painted afore the fall rain comes on, Emarine? It needs it turrable bad.”