“I'm pretty well, thank you,” replied Mrs. Field, looking at her with stiff inquiry.
The woman had a pale, pretty face, and stood with a sturdy set-back on her heels. “I guess you don't know me, Mis' Maxwell,” said she, smiling deprecatingly.
Mrs. Field tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. “I guess I—don't,” she faltered.
The smile faded from the woman's face. She cast an anxious glance at her own face in the glass over the mantel-shelf; she had placed herself so she could see it. “I ain't got quite so much color as I used to have,” she said, “but I ain't thought I'd changed much other ways. Some days I have more color. I know I ain't this mornin'. I ain't had very good health. Maybe that's the reason you don't know me.”
Mrs. Field muttered a feeble assent.
“I'd know you anywhere, but you didn't have any color to lose to make a difference. You've always looked jest the way you do now since I've known you. I lived in this house a whole year with you once. I come here to live after Mr. Maxwell's wife died. My name is Jay.”
Mrs. Field stood staring. The woman, who had been looking in the glass while she talked, gave her front hair a little shake, and turned toward her inquiringly.
“Won't you sit down in this rockin'-chair, Mis' Jay?” said Mrs. Field.
“No, thank you, I guess I won't set down, I'm in a little of a hurry. I jest wanted to see you a minute.”
Mrs. Field waited.