Mrs. Field muttered a feeble assent.

“I’d know you anywhere, but you didn’t have any color to lose to make a difference.  You’ve always looked jest the way you do now since I’ve known you.  I lived in this house a whole year with you once.  I come here to live after Mr. Maxwell’s wife died.  My name is Jay.”

Mrs. Field stood staring.  The woman, who had been looking in the glass while she talked, gave her front hair a little shake, and turned toward her inquiringly.

“Won’t you sit down in this rockin’-chair, Mis’ Jay?” said Mrs. Field.

“No, thank you, I guess I won’t set down, I’m in a little of a hurry.  I jest wanted to see you a minute.”

Mrs. Field waited.

“You know Mr. Maxwell’s dyin’ so sudden made a good deal of a change for me,” Mrs. Jay continued.  She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes softly; then she glanced in the glass.  “I’d had my home here a good many years, an’ it seemed hard to lose it all in a minute so.  There he came home that Sunday noon an’ eat a hearty dinner, an’ before sunset he had that shock, and never spoke afterward.  I’ve thought maybe there were things he would have said if he could have spoke.”

Mrs. Jay sighed heavily; her eyes reddened; she straightened her bonnet absently; her silvered fair hair was frizzed under it.

Mrs. Field stood opposite, her eyes downcast, her face rigid.

“I wanted to speak to you, Mis’ Maxwell,” the other woman went on.  “I ain’t obliged to go out anywheres to live; I’ve got property; but it’s kind of lonesome at my sister’s, where I’m livin’.  It’s a little out of the village, an’ there ain’t much passin’.  I like to be where I can see passin’, an’ get out to meetin’ easy if it’s bad weather.  I’ve been thinkin’—­I didn’t know but maybe you’d like to have me—­I heard you had some trouble with your hands, an’ your niece wa’n’t well—­that I might be willin’ to come an’ stay three or four weeks.  I shouldn’t want to promise to stay very long.”

“I ain’t never been in the habit of keepin’ help,” returned Mrs. Field.  “I’ve always done my own work.”

The other woman’s face flushed deeply; she moved toward the door.  “I don’t know as anything was said about keepin’ help,” said she.  “I ain’t never considered myself help.  There ain’t any need of my goin’ out to live.  I’ve got enough to live on, an’ I’ve got good clothes.  I’ve got a black silk stiff enough to stand alone; cost three dollars a yard.  I paid seven dollars to have it made up, and the lace on it cost a dollar a yard.  I ain’t obliged to be at anybody’s beck and call.”

“I hope I ain’t said anything to hurt your feelin’s,” said Mrs. Field, following her into the entry.  “I’ve always done my own work, an’—­”

“We won’t speak of it again,” said Mrs. Jay.  “I’ll bid you good-mornin’, Mis’ Maxwell.”  Her voice shook, she held up her black skirt, and never looked around as she went down the steps.