A woman had come round the corner of the house and was walking very slowly toward the back door. She was dressed in black and carried a large, square hessian bag that flapped, almost empty, against her thigh. Her slow, slow walk carried her past the flowers and the vegetables and the barking dog, but she didn’t look about her. By her face and her figure she was not old, but her walk was old. Her feet moved painfully on the smooth flagstone path. The uneven hem of her dress reached, in some places, almost to her ankles. She wore a round hat of black felt, crammed down on her head.

The kitchen door opened as she reached it, and Marge looked out. The dog slipped inside, still barking in little short puffs. The woman spoke, not accentuating her words with any movement, clasping the thick loops of the bag against her hip. Marge—short, plump, and fair—came out onto the step and closed the door behind her because of the flies. The voices came indistinctly through the hot glass of the veranda. In a moment, Marge opened the door again and both women disappeared into the house.

Ida and her mother had moved away from the windows; they heard Marge’s step before they could sit down again. Marge appeared on the veranda, her face creased and uneasy. Ida knew, before she spoke, that her voice would be lowered. It was so low, in fact, that the child could scarcely hear.

“Walking all day,” she said, “poor soul … this heat … she’s looking for work” and “… children…”

Ida’s mother stuck the needle into the sewing in her hand and put it down on the chair. Her face, too, was troubled. She went inside, through the study and into the hall, with Marge and Ida following, and down the corridor to the kitchen.

The woman was standing by the kitchen table, still holding her bag. She looked austerely at the group in the doorway. The skin of her face and arms was brown and dry, but she had young features and, under the battered hat, limp, dark hair. She didn’t speak, but sat at the table when she was asked, and drank a glass of lemonade straight down without stopping. When she had done that, she seemed to sag in her chair; she propped her elbow on the table and her brow on her hand, and closed her eyes.