MRS. ATKINS. She gets it right from her Pa—bein’ sickly all the time. You can’t deny Robert was always ailin’ as a child. (She sighs heavily) It was a crazy mistake for them two to get married. I argyed against it at the time, but Ruth was so spelled with Robert’s wild poetry notions she wouldn’t listen to sense. Andy was the one would have been the match for her.
MRS. MAYO. I’ve often thought since it might have been better the other way. But Ruth and Robbie seem happy enough together.
MRS. ATKINS. At any rate it was God’s work—and His will be done. (The two women sit in silence for a moment. RUTH enters from the kitchen, carrying in her arms her two year old daughter, MARY, a pretty but sickly and ænemic looking child with a tear-stained face. RUTH has aged appreciably. Her face has lost its youth and freshness. There is a trace in her expression of something hard and spiteful. She sits in the rocker in front of the table and sighs wearily. She wears a gingham dress with a soiled apron tied around her waist).
RUTH. Land sakes, if this isn’t a scorcher! That kitchen’s like a furnace. Phew! (She pushes the damp hair back from her forehead).
MRS. MAYO. Why didn’t you call me to help with the dishes?
RUTH. (shortly) No. The heat in there’d kill you.
MARY. (sees the doll under the table and struggles on her mother’s lap) Dolly, Mama! Dolly!
RUTH. (pulling her back) It’s time for your nap. You can’t play with Dolly now.
MARY. (commencing to cry whiningly) Dolly!
MRS. ATKINS. (irritably) Can’t you keep that child still? Her racket’s enough to split a body’s ears. Put her down and let her play with the doll if it’ll quiet her.