“She's come,” said Lois, in a strained voice.
“Well, I'm thankful!” cried Mrs. Green. “Hadn't you better run out an' help her off with her wet things, Lois?”
But the sitting-room door opened, and Mrs. Field stood there, a tall black shadow hardly shaped out from the gloom. The women all arose and hurried toward her. There was a shrill flurry of greeting. Mrs. Field's voice arose high and terrified above it.
“Who is it?” she cried out. “Who's here?”
“Why, your old neighbors, Mrs. Field. Don't you know us—Mandy an' Mis' Green an' Mis' Babcock? We come down on an excursion ticket to Boston—only three dollars an' sixty cents—an' we thought we'd surprise you.”
“Ain't you dreadful wet, Mis' Field?” interposed Mrs. Green's solicitous voice.
“You'd better go and change your dress,” said Amanda.
“When did you come?” said Mrs. Field.
“Jest now. For the land sakes, Mis' Field, your dress is soppin' wet! Do go an' change it, or you'll catch your death of cold.”
Mrs. Field did not stir. The hail pelted on the windows. “Now, you go right along an' change it,” cried Mrs. Babcock.