“Dreadful cross-lookin', ain't she?” one of the women whispered in the other's ear.
Jane heard the whisper, and looked at them. The women gave each other violent pokes, they reddened and tittered nervously, then they tried to look out of the window with an innocent and absent air. But they need not have been troubled. Jane, although she heard the whisper perfectly, did not connect it with herself at all. She never thought much about her own appearance; this morning she had as little vanity as though she were dead.
When the whistle of the train sounded, the women all pushed anxiously out on the platform.
“Is this the train that goes to Boston?” Mrs. Field asked one of the other two.
“I s'pose so,” she replied, with a reciprocative flutter. “I'm goin' to ask so's to be sure. I'm goin' to Dale.”
“I always ask,” her friend remarked, with decision.
When the train stopped, Mrs. Field inquired of a brakeman. She was hardly satisfied with his affirmative answer. “Are you the conductor?” said she, sternly peering.
The young fellow gave a hurried wave of his hand toward the conductor, “There he is, ma'am.”
Mrs. Field asked him also, then she hoisted herself into the car. When she had taken her seat, she put the same question to a woman in front of her.
It was a five-hours' ride to Boston. Mrs. Field sat all the while in her place with her bag in her lap, and never stirred. There was a look of rigid preparation about her, as if all her muscles were strained for an instant leap.