She lived with a widowed sister in a little, lean dusty farmhouse by the side of the road; a hill road that went nowhere in particular, and was too steep for those who were going there.
Brisk on her crutches, Mrs. Joyce hopped about the little house, there was nowhere else to hop to. She had talked her sister out long since—Mary never had never much to say. Occasionally they quarreled and then Mrs. Joyce hopped only in her room, a limited process.
She sat at the window one day, staring greedily out at the lumpy rock-ribbed road; silent, perforce, and tapping the arms of her chair with nervous intensity. Suddenly she called out, "Mary! Mary Ames! Come here quick! There's somebody coming up the road!"
Mary came in, as fast as she could with eggs in her apron. "It's Mrs.
Holmes!" she said. "And a boarder, I guess."
"No, it ain't," said Mrs. Joyce, eagerly. "It's that woman that's visiting the Holmes—she was in church last week, Myra Slater told me about her. Her name's MacDowell, or something."
"It ain't MacDowell," said her sister. "I remember; it's MacAvelly."
This theory was borne out by Mrs. Holmes' entrance and introduction of her friend.
"Have you any eggs for us, Mrs. Ames?" she said.
"Set down—set down," said Mrs. Ames cordially. "I was just getting in my eggs—but here's only about eight yet. How many was you wantin'?"
"I want all you can find," said Mrs. Holmes. "Two dozen, three dozen—all I can carry."