It was Calliope, sitting on the porch step outside, where it was dark, who at last had the courage to be articulate.
"I hope—I hope," she said, "she's goin' to be all right."
Mis' Sykes shaded her eyes from the bracket lamp within.
"I'll go bail," she said, "that little you-do-as-I-say chin'll carry her through. I'm glad she's got it."
Just then we heard the thin crying of the child and we could divine Calliope, that on the step where she sat she was hugging her arms and rocking somewhat, to and fro.
"Like enough," she said, "oh, like enough—folks ain't so cramped about runnin' their own feelin's as they think they are!"
To this we murmured something indefinite in sound but positive enough in sense. And we all knew what we all knew.
"Let's go out around the house to the front gate," said that great Mis' Amanda Toplady, abruptly. "Have any of you ladies got two handkerchiefs?"
"I've got two," said Mis' Postmaster Sykes, "an' I ain't used either one. Do you want the one with essence or the one without?"
"I ain't partial," said Mis' Amanda.