Ann Whittle sniffed suspiciously. She never felt quite sure of Abby Daggett: there was a lurking sparkle in her demure blue eyes and a suspicious dimple near the corner of her mouth which ruffled Mrs. Whittle’s temper, already strained to the breaking point by the heat and dust of their midday journey.
“Well, I never should have thought of such a thing, as going to Ladies’ Aid in all this heat, if you hadn’t come after me, Abby,” she said crossly. “I guess flannel petticoats for the heathen could have waited a spell.”
“Mebbe they could, Ann,” Mrs. Daggett said soothingly. “It’s kind of hard to imagine a heathen wanting any sort of a petticoat this weather, and I guess they don’t wear ’em before they’re converted; but of course the missionaries try to teach ’em better. They go forth, so to say, with the Bible in one hand and a petticoat in the other.”
“I should hope so!” said Mrs. Whittle, with vague fervor.
The sight of a toiling wagon supporting a huge barrel caused her to change the subject rather abruptly.
“That’s Jacob Merrill’s team,” she said, craning her neck. “What on earth has he got in that hogs-head?”
“He’s headed for Lydia Orr’s spring, I shouldn’t wonder,” surmised Mrs. Daggett. “She told Henry to put up a notice in the post office that folks could get all the water they wanted from her spring. It’s running, same as usual; but, most everybody else’s has dried up.”
“I think the minister ought to pray for rain regular from the pulpit on Sunday,” Mrs. Whittle advanced. “I’m going to tell him so.”
“She’s going to do a lot better than that,” said Mrs. Daggett.... “For the land sake, Dolly! I ain’t urged you beyond your strength, and you know it; but if you don’t g’long—”
A vigorous slap of the reins conveyed Mrs. Daggett’s unuttered threat to the reluctant animal, with the result that both ladies were suddenly jerked backward by an unlooked for burst of speed.