There remained then what the others called her "swell friends." Gray
Stoddard--the thought brought with it an agony from which she flinched.
But after all, there was Lydia Sessions. She was sure Miss Sessions
meant to be kind; and if she knew that Deanie was really sick--. Yes, it
would be worth while to go to her with the whole matter.
At the thought she turned hesitatingly toward the door, meaning to get
her hat, and--though she had formulated no method of appeal--to hurry to
the Hardwick house and at least talk with Miss Sessions and endeavour to
enlist her help.
But the door opened before she reached it, and Mavity Bence stood there,
in her face the deadly weariness of all woman's toil and travail
since the fall.
Johnnie moved to her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder,
remembering with swift compunction that the poor woman's burdens were
trebled since Laurella lay ill, and Pap gave up so much of his time to
hanging anxiously about his young wife.
"What is it, Aunt Mavity?" she asked. "Is anything the matter?"
"I hate to werry ye, Johnnie," said the other's deprecating voice; "but
looks like I've jest got obliged to have a little help this evenin'. I'm
plumb dead on my feet, and there's all the dishes to do and a stack of
towels and things to rub out." Her dim gaze questioned the young face
above her dubiously, almost desperately.
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