They were weary evenings when she came home now, with the
November rain blowing in the streets and the early-falling dusk almost
upon her. It was on a Saturday night, and she had been to the hospital,
when she got in to find Mandy, seated in the darkest corner of the
sitting room, with a red flannel cloth around her neck--a sure sign that
something unfortunate had occurred, since the tall woman always had sore
throat when trouble loomed large.
"What's the matter?" asked Johnnie, coming close and laying a hand on
the bent shoulder to peer into the drooping countenance.
"Don't come too nigh me--you'll ketch it," warned Mandy gloomily. "A so'
th'oat is as ketchin' as smallpox, and I know it so to be, though they
is them that say it ain't. When mine gits like this I jest tie it up and
keep away from folks best I can. I hain't dared touch the baby sence hit
began to hurt me this a-way."
"There's something besides the sore throat," persisted Johnnie. "Is it
anything I can help you about?"
"Now, if that ain't jest like Johnnie Consadine!" apostrophized Mandy.
"Yes, there is somethin'--not that I keer." She tossed her poor old
gray head scornfully, and then groaned because the movement hurt her
throat. "That thar feisty old Sullivan gave me my time this evenin'. He
said they was layin' off weavers, and they could spare me.
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