Jane Field | Page 8

how bad Lois is, Mis'
Field."
"Mebbe I don't." Mrs. Field's voice sounded hard.
The other woman looked perplexedly at her for a moment, then she
went on:
"Well, if you do, mebbe I hadn't ought to said anything; but I was
dreadful afraid you didn't, an' then when you come to, perhaps when
'twas too late, you'd never forgive yourself. She hadn't ought to teach
school another day, Mis' Field."
"I dun'no how it's goin' to be helped," Mrs. Field said again, in her hard
voice.
"Mis' Field, I know it ain't any of my business, an' I don't know but
you'll think I'm interferin'; but I can't help it nohow when I think
of--my Abby, an' how--she went down. Ain't you got anybody that
could help you a little while till she gets better an' able to work?"
"I dun'no' of anybody."
"Wouldn't your sister's husband's father? Ain't he got considerable
property?"
Mrs. Field turned suddenly, her voice sharpened, "I've asked him all
I'm ever goin' to--there! I let Esther's husband have fifteen hundred
dollars that my poor husband saved out of his hard earnin's, an' he lost
it in his business; an' after he died I wrote to his father, an' I told him
about it. I thought mebbe he'd be willin' to be fair, an' pay his son's
debts, if he didn't have much feelin'. There was Esther an' Lois an' me,
an' not a cent to live on, an' Esther she was beginnin' to be feeble. But
he jest sent me back my letter, an' he'd wrote on the back of it that he
wa'n't responsible for any of his son's debts. I said then I'd never go to
him agin, and I didn't; an' Esther didn't when she was sick an' dyin'; an'
I never let him know when she died, an' I don't s'pose he knows she is
dead to this day."

"Oh, Mis' Field, you didn't have to lose all that money!"
"Yes, I did, every dollar of it."
"I declare it's wicked."
"There's a good many things that's wicked, an' sometimes I think some
things ain't wicked that we've always thought was. I don't know but the
Lord meant everybody to have what belonged to them in spite of
everything."
Mrs. Green stared. "I guess I don't know jest what you mean, Mis'
Field."
"I meant everybody ought to have what's their just due, an' I believe the
Lord will uphold them in it. I've about come to the conclusion that folks
ought to lay hold of justice themselves if there ain't no other way, an'
that's what we've got hands for." Suddenly Mrs. Field's manner
changed. "I know Lois hadn't ought to be teachin' school as well as you
do," said she. "I ain't said much about it, it ain't my way, but I've known
it all the time."
"She'd ought to take a vacation, Mis' Field, an' get away from here for a
spell. Folks say Green River ain't very healthy. They say these low
meadow-lands are bad. I worried enough about it after my Abby died,
thinkin' what might have been done. It does seem to me that if
something was done right away, Lois might get up; but there ain't no
use waitin'. I've seen young girls go down; it seems sometimes as if
there wa'n't nothin' more to them than flowers, an' they fade away in a
day. I've been all through it. Mis' Field, you don't mind my speakin' so,
do you? Oh, Mis' Field, don't feel so bad! I'm real sorry I said anythin'."
Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. "I ain't--blamin' you," she said,
brokenly.
Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. "Mis' Field, I wouldn't have
spoken a word, but--I felt as if something ought to be done, if there
could be; an'--I thought--so much about my--poor Abby. Lois always

makes me think of her; she's jest about her build; an'--I didn't know as
you--realized."
"I realized enough," returned Mrs. Field, catching her breath as she
walked on.
"Now I hope you don't feel any worse because I spoke as I did," Mrs.
Green said, when they reached the gate of the Pratt house.
"You ain't told me anything I didn't know," replied Mrs. Field.
Mrs. Green felt for one of her distorted hands; she held it a second, then
she dropped it. Mrs. Field let it hang stiffly the while. It was a fervent
demonstration to them, the evidence of unwonted excitement and the
deepest feeling. When Mrs. Field entered her sitting-room, the first
object that met her eyes was Lois' face. She was tilted back in the
rocking-chair, her slender throat was exposed, her lips were slightly
parted, and there was a glassy gleam between her half-open eyelids.
Her mother stood