It was a hot afternoon in August.

Amanda Pratt had set all her windows wide open, but no breeze came in, only the fervid breath of the fields and the white road outside.
She sat at a front window and darned a white stocking; her long, thin arms and her neck showed faintly through her old loose muslin sacque.
The muslin was white, with a close-set lavender sprig, and she wore a cameo brooch at her throat.

The blinds were closed, and she had to bend low over her mending in order to see in the green gloom.
Mrs.Babcock came toiling up the bank to the house, but Amanda did not notice her until she reached the front door.

Then she fetched a great laboring sigh.
"Oh, hum!" said she, audibly, in a wrathful voice; "if I'd had any idea of it, I wouldn't have come a step." Then Amanda looked out with a start.

"Is that you, Mis' Babcock ?" she called hospitably through the blind.
"Yes, it's me--what's left of me.