"Are you there, Martha?" she called.
"That you, Sophie?" Martha queried. "Come in!"
Sophie went into the kitchen. Martha had a big fire, and her room was full of its hot glare. She was ironing at a table against the wall, and freshly laundered, white clothes were hanging to a line stretched from above the window to a nail on the inner wall. She looked up happily as Sophie appeared, sweat streaming from her fat, jolly face.
"I was just thinking of you, dearie," she exclaimed, putting the iron on an upturned tin, and straightening out the flounces of the dress she was at work on. "Lovely day it's been for the races, hasn't it? Sit down. I'll be done d'reckly, and am going to make a cup of tea before I go over to help Mrs. Newton a bit with dinner. My, she's got her hands full over there—with all the crowd up!... Don't think I ever did see such a crowd at the races, Sophie."
Martha's iron flashed and swung backwards and forth. Sophie watched the brawny forearm which wielded the iron. Hard and as brown as the branch of a tree it was, from above the elbow where her sleeve was rolled back to the wrist; the hand fastened over the iron, red and dappled with great golden-brown freckles; the nails of its short, thick fingers, broken, dirt lying in thick, black wedges beneath them. As her other hand moved over the dress, preparing the way for the iron, Sophie saw its work-worn palm, the lines on it driven deep with scouring, scrubbing, and years of washing clothes, and cleaning other folks' houses. She thought of the work those hands of Martha's had done for Fallen Star; how Martha had looked after sick people, brought babies into the world, nursed the mothers, mended, washed, sewed, and darned, giving her help wherever it was needed. Always good-natured, hearty, healthy, and wholesome, what a wonderful woman she was, Mother M'Cready, Sophie exclaimed to herself.
Martha was as excited as any girl on the Ridge, ironing her dress now, and getting ready for the ball. Sophie wondered how old she was. She did not look any older than when she first remembered her; but people said Martha must be sixty if she was a day. And she loved a dance, Sophie knew. She could dance, too, Mother M'Cready. The boys said she could dance like a two-year-old.
"What are you going to wear to the ball, Sophie?" Martha asked. "I suppose you've got some real nice dresses you brought from America."
"I'm not going," Sophie said,
"Not going?" Martha's iron came down with a bang, her blue eyes flashed wide with astonishment. "The idea! Not goin' to the Ridge ball—the first since you came home? I never heard of such a thing.... 'Course you're going, Sophie!"
Sophie's glance left Martha's big, busy figure. It went through the open doorway. The sunshine was garish on the plains, although the afternoon was nearly over.