“How are they now?” she inquired. “Seems to me they look worse than they used to.”
Mrs. Field regarded her hands with a staid, melancholy air. “Well, I dun'no'.”
“Seems to me they look worse. How's Lois, Mis' Field?”
“She's pretty well, I guess. I dun'no' why she ain't.”
“Somebody was sayin' the other day that she looked dreadfully.”
Mrs. Field had heretofore held herself with a certain slow dignity. Now her manner suddenly changed, and she spoke fast. “I dun'no' what folks mean talkin' so,” said she. “Lois ain't been lookin' very well, as I know of, lately; but it's the spring of the year, an' she's always apt to feel it.”
“Mebbe that is it,” replied the other, with a doubtful inflection. “Let's see, you called it consumption that ailed your sister, didn't you, Mis' Field?”
“I s'pose it was.”
Mrs. Babcock stared with cool reflection at the other woman's long, pale face, with its high cheek-bones and deep-set eyes and wide, drooping mouth. She was deliberating whether or not to ask for some information that she wanted. “Speakin' of your sister,” said she finally, with a casual air, “her husband's father is livin', ain't he?”
“He was the last I knew.”