“So you’re back, Libby!” Isobel was constrained to speak to her softly, as one speaks to a mourner. She deserted her spinning wheel, and took her knitting, for a visit.
“I’m back.”
“You’ve no word of him?”
“No word.” Each of her answers was accompanied by a sigh most long and deep.
“I suppose you looked everywhere?”
“I went about the whole city asking for him.”
“How could you know how to go, Libby?”
“That was no trouble. Men in barns is that kind to a body. I asked them in every one where the next one was, and they told me. Sometimes they drove me in some carriage. And there was the cars. I just said I was looking for my Peter who was sick in some stable. James McWhee went to the police and to the hospitals. There’s none better than the McWhees, Isobel. They have a fine painted house with trees about it. They would have me stay longer. James said he would be always looking for him.” She gave another great sigh.
“Ah, weel, Libby, some day he’ll find him. Some day you’ll get word from him, no doubt. It’s a fine place, Chicago. The sick’ll be well cared for there. It wouldn’t be like New Orleans, now. Wully says the lake is just like the ocean. Did you see the lake, Libby?”
“I did’na see the lake. I was aye seeking Peter.”