"And what belongs to us, Mrs. Grumble?" asked the dressmaker, lifting
from her lap a dress designed for Mrs. Sneath, the butcher's wife.

"No more than what we can get," replied Mrs. Grumble, with a shake of
her head. "And that's little enough."

"Then," said Miss Beal, "what do you think Anna Barly meant by saying
'twas the old had got her into trouble?"

"Why, bless your soul," said Mrs. Grumble.

Miss Beal, from the front of her chair, regarded her friend with round
and serious eyes. "I don't rightly know, Mrs. Grumble," she said, "but
I came on her yesterday, and I declare if she hadn't been crying. Last
night I dreamed old Mrs. Tomkins died. And you know, Mrs. Grumble,
dream of the dead . . ."

"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble.

"Mind," quoth Miss Beal, "I don't mean to say there's anything as
shouldn't be. Still, nothing would surprise me."

"There's no use talking," cried Mrs. Grumble, "because I don't believe
a word of it." But she felt it her duty to add: "For all I never saw
Anna look so poorly."

"A touch of influenza," answered Miss Beal, "so Sara Barly says. Lord
save us: a big healthy girl like Anna."