“She is not,” said Nannette with asperity.
“Perhaps you know if she is already on her way to school?”
Nannette wished she did.
“She’ll not be able—” she began and then reflected that perhaps Joyce was on her way to school. No telling where she had spent the night with this in view. At least she must not give away the present situation to the whole village. Especially not to this interesting stranger. He must be the man they were talking about at the station last night, young and good-looking. What could he want with Joyce?
“I’m not sure whether she is going over to the school today or not,” she equivocated. “Is there any message?”
“Just ask her to step into my office if she is coming to school. If not I shall be glad to have her call me, as soon as she comes in. Thank you. Good morning.”
The click of the telephone was almost immediately followed by a knock on the kitchen door, where stood a small boy with a basket of luscious strawberries covered over with dewy leaves. He was freckled and cross-eyed, with two upper teeth missing, but he had a most engaging smile, and he wanted Joyce very much. He seemed dubious about leaving the strawberries when he heard she was not at home, and almost decided to sit down and wait, but Nannette explained that it might be some time and he surrendered the basket reluctantly with the message that “Ma” had “thent ’em fer Joyth and wanted the rethipe for her y’aunth’s maple cake.”
Nannette regarded the strawberries with a vindictive glare. Why should Joyce have so many friends? Since Mother Massey died everybody seemed so interested in doing things for Joyce and nobody seemed to bother about her in the least, although she was the son’s wife. It certainly wasn’t going to be pleasant living in this town until she had made Joyce’s position quite plain. But then, after everybody understood that Joyce couldn’t go out as much as she used to, and wasn’t wearing such fine clothes nor having leisure for picnics and Sunday-school classes and the like, people would soon realize that Joyce was nothing.
The next call on the telephone came from the minister’s wife. She wanted Joyce to come and take lunch with her. She thought it might take her mind off her sorrow a little and help her to get back into natural living again.
Nannette was furious, but she managed a vague reply. Joyce was away. She wasn’t sure whether she would be back in time for lunch or not. No, she wasn’t gone to visit friends. She went—well—on business.