upsets her. Mary doesn’t feel any too well these days, poor little child!
Mrs. Atkins—She gets it right from her Pa—bein’ sickly all the time. You can’t deny Robert was always ailin’ as a child. [She sighs heavily.] It was a crazy mistake for them two to get married. I argyed against it at the time, but Ruth was so spelled with Robert’s wild poetry notions she wouldn’t listen to sense. Andy was the one would have been the match for her. I always thought so in those days, same as your James did; and I know she liked Andy. Then ’long comes Robert with his book-learnin’ and high-fangled talk—and off she goes and marries him.
Mrs. Mayo—I’ve often thought since it might have been better the other way. But Ruth and Robbie seem happy enough together.
Mrs. Atkins—At any rate it was God’s work—and His will be done. [The two women sit in silence for a moment. Ruth enters from the kitchen, carrying in her arms her two year old daughter, Mary, a pretty hut sickly and aenemic looking child with a tear-stained face. Ruth has aged appreciably. Her face has lost its youth and freshness. There is a trace in her expression of something hard and spiteful. She sits in the rocker in front of the table and sighs wearily. She wears a gingham dress with a soiled apron tied around her waist.]
Ruth—Land sakes, if this isn’t a scorcher! That kitchen’s like a furnace. Phew! [She pushes the damp hair hack from her forehead.]
