“Well,” puts in Mis’ Pettibone, “gettin’ settled so——”
“Oh,” says the woman, “I been here a month.”
And Mis’ Lockmeyer, wishing to make amends and pull her foot out, planted the other right along side of it instead.
“Do you sell anything? Or sew anything? Or wash and iron anything?” she asks.
And the woman says: “I sew and wash and iron anything I can do home, with my little girl. But I ain’t a thing in the world to sell.”
“Of course you ain’t,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer soothing, and hoping to make it better still.
“Well,” says Mis’ Puppy hearty, “I tell you what. We’ll be out to see you in a little bit, if you want us to.”
My land, the woman’s face—I donno whether you’ve ever seen anybody’s face lit up from the inside with the light fair showing through all the pores like little windows? Hers done it. She didn’t say nothing—she just done that. And we drove on.
“Land,” says Mis’ Pettibone, thoughtful, “how like each other folks are, no matter how not-like they seem to the folks you think they ain’t one bit like.”
“Ain’t they—ain’t they?” says I, hearty. And I guess we all felt the same.