“When did you come to town, Esther?”
“Jest now.”
“Let me see, where from? I can't seem to remember the name of the place where you've been livin'. I know it, too.”
“Green River.”
“Oh, yes, Green River. Well, I'm glad to see you, Esther. You ain't changed much, come to look at you; not so much as I have, I s'pose. I don't expect you'd know me, would you?”
“I—don't know as I would.” Mrs. Field recoiled from a lie even in the midst of falsehood.
The old lady's face contracted a little, but she could spring above her emotions. “Well, I don't s'pose you would, either,” responded she, with fine alacrity. “I've grown old and wrinkled and yellow, though I ain't gray,” with a swift glance at Mrs. Field's smooth curves of white hair. “You turned gray pretty young, didn't you, Esther?”
“Yes, I did.”
The old lady's front hair hung in dark-brown spirals, a little bunch of them against either cheek, outside her bonnet. She set them dancing with a little dip of her head when she spoke again. “I thought you did,” said she. “Well, you're comin' over to my house, ain't you, Esther? You'll find a good many changes there. My daughter Flora and I are all that's left now, you know, I s'pose.”
Mrs. Field moved her head uncertainly. This old woman, with her straight demands for truth or falsehood, was torture to her.