ALLIE MAYO:  (to herself.) If I could say that, I can say more. (looking at woman she has arrested, but speaking more to herself) That boy in there—­his face—­uncovered something—­(her open hand on her chest.  But she waits, as if she cannot go on; when she speaks it is in labored way—­slow, monotonous, as if snowed in by silent years) For twenty years, I did what you are doing.  And I can tell you—­it’s not the way. (her voice has fallen to a whisper; she stops, looking ahead at something remote and veiled) We had been married—­two years. (a start, as of sudden pain.  Says it again, as if to make herself say it) Married—­two years.  He had a chance to go north on a whaler.  Times hard.  He had to go.  A year and a half—­it was to be.  A year and a half.  Two years we’d been married.

(She sits silent, moving a little back and forth.)

The day he went away. (not spoken, but breathed from pain) The days after he was gone.

I heard at first.  Last letter said farther north—­not another chance to write till on the way home. (a wait)

Six months.  Another, I did not hear. (long wait) Nobody ever heard. (after it seems she is held there, and will not go on) I used to talk as much as any girl in Provincetown.  Jim used to tease me about my talking.  But they’d come in to talk to me.  They’d say—­’You may hear yet.’ They’d talk about what must have happened.  And one day a woman who’d been my friend all my life said—­’Suppose he was to walk in!’ I got up and drove her from my kitchen—­and from that time till this I’ve not said a word I didn’t have to say. (she has become almost wild in telling this.  That passes.  In a whisper) The ice that caught Jim—­caught me. (a moment as if held in ice.  Comes from it.  To MRS PATRICK simply) It’s not the way. (a sudden change) You’re not the only woman in the world whose husband is dead!

MRS PATRICK:  (with a cry of the hurt) Dead?  My husband’s not dead.

ALLIE MAYO:  He’s not? (slowly understands) Oh.

(The woman in the door is crying.  Suddenly picks up her coat which has fallen to the floor and steps outside.)

ALLIE MAYO:  (almost failing to do it) Wait.

MRS PATRICK:  Wait?  Don’t you think you’ve said enough?  They told me you didn’t say an unnecessary word!

ALLIE MAYO:  I don’t.

MRS PATRICK:  And you can see, I should think, that you’ve bungled into things you know nothing about!

(As she speaks, and crying under her breath, she pushes the sand by the door down on the half buried grass—­though not as if knowing what she is doing.)

ALLIE MAYO:  (slowly) When you keep still for twenty years you know—­things you didn’t know you knew.  I know why you’re doing that. (she looks up at her, startled) Don’t bury the only thing that will grow.  Let it grow.