Mrs. Maxwell gasped. Flora laid her hand on her arm when she tried to speak again.
“I'm goin' to tell her how I've been without a decent dress, an' how I've been luggin' my own things out of this house, an' now I've got to lug 'em all back again,” she whispered defiantly.
“Mother, you keep still,” said Flora.
Mrs. Green went across the room and put her arm around Lois, standing by her mother. “Let's you an' me get her in her bedroom, an' have her lay down on the bed, an' try an' quiet her,” she whispered. “She's all unstrung. Mebbe she'll be better.”
Mrs. Field at once turned toward her.
“I ain't Esther Maxwell,” said she.
“O Mis' Field! oh, poor woman! it ain't for us to judge you,” returned Mrs. Green, in her tender, inexpressibly solemn voice. “Come, Lois.”
“Yes, that'll be a good plan,” chimed in Mrs. Babcock. “She'd better go in her bedroom where it's quiet, or she'll wind up with a fever. There's too many folks here.”
“I wonder if some of my currant wine wouldn't be good for her?” said Mrs. Jane Maxwell, with an air of irrepressible virtue.
“She don't want none of your currant wine,” rejoined Mrs. Babcock fiercely. “She's suffered enough by your family.”