“I haven't heard it for awhile, but maybe I'll be at church next Sunday, if minding the telephone doesn't make me feel too wicked.”
“It's the wicked that church is for—come by all means.”
“I didn't mean to detain you, Mr. Rutledge. It is restful, though, after dragging one's weary feet down to the 'phone to hear something beside all the ills that flesh is heir to. Come to see us soon—one day next week.”
Once more she wended her way upstairs and in about fifteen minutes came the ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling. “I surrender!” she declared.
When she had gone down and put the receiver to her ear her husband's voice spoke kindly,
“I'm back, Mary, you're released.”
“Thank you, John, you are very thoughtful,” and she smiled as she took off her sun-bonnet and sat herself down. “Not another time will I climb those stairs this morning.”
Mary sat one evening dreamily thinking about them—these messages that came every day, every day!
Doctor, will it hurt Jennie to eat some tomatoes this morning—she craves them so?