“So ye air the furrin womern that Davy tolt me about,” said she. “Well, ye’re right purty, that’s shore.”
“Hain’t she, though!” affirmed Granny Williams. “Hain’t she, though!—an’ gittin’ purtier right along. If only she’d taken a few doses of camomile an’ sage, I’d ‘a’ had her ready by now so’s she could do a day’s work. She’s powerful triflin’, Granny.” Even old women called Granny Joslin “Granny,” for she was older than the oldest of them.
But Granny Joslin for some reason seemed softened quite beyond her wont. “I’m glad to see ye, Ma’am,” said she. “I’m sorry ye lost yore man down at the Narrers. Hit’s a powerful mean place fer a man to git in—thar’s a heap of graves around thar—men lost from the rafts at the Narrers. Davy’s tolt me, many’s the time.”
Marcia Haddon did not make any response.
“Davy tolt me all about ye, too,” continued the old woman. “I know ye must be moughty lonesome in here. When air ye goin’ back, Ma’am?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’ve been here longer than I had planned—I ought to go any time—I must go now.”
“Did ye hear the playin’ in the street right now?” asked the old woman suddenly. “Has the war came up North as well as here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Joslin. It’s an awful, awful thing.”