“Yes, it's me—what's left of me. Oh, hum! Oh, hum!”
Amanda ran and opened the door, and Mrs. Babcock entered, panting. She had a green umbrella, which she furled with difficulty at the door, and a palm-leaf fan. Her face, in the depths of her scooping green barége bonnet, was dank with perspiration, and scowling with indignant misery. She sank into a chair, and fanned herself with a desperate air.
Amanda set her umbrella in the corner, then she stood looking sympathetically at her. “It's a pretty hot day, ain't it?” said she.
“I should think 'twas hot. Oh, hum!”
“Don't you want me to get you a tumbler of water?”
“I dunno. I don't drink much cold water; it don't agree with me very well. Oh, dear! You ain't got any of your beer made, I s'pose?”
“Oh, no, I ain't. I'm dreadful sorry. Don't you want a swaller of cold tea?”
“Well, I dunno but I'll have jest a swaller, if you've got some. Oh, dear me, hum!”
Amanda went out hurriedly, and returned with a britannia teapot and a tumbler. She poured out some tea, and Mrs. Babcock drank with desperate gulps.
“I think cold tea is better for anybody than cold water in hot weather,” said Amanda. “Won't you have another swaller, Mis' Babcock?”