abnormal as it will in young women. “Where’s your ma?” I said. “Haven’t you got one?”
“She’s out yonder in the wagon,” she said.
“Why not talk to her about it before you take any medicine,” I said. “Any woman would have told you about it.” She looked at me, and I looked at her again and said, “How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “I thought maybe you were …” She was watching me. But then, in the eyes all of them look like they had no age and knew everything in the world, anyhow. “Are you too regular, or not regular enough?”
She quit looking at me but she didn’t move. “Yes,” she said. “I reckon so. Yes.”
“Well, which?” I said. “Don’t you know?” It’s a crime and a shame; but after all, they’ll buy it from somebody. She stood there, not looking at me. “You want something to stop it?” I said. “Is that it?”
“No,” she said. “That’s it. It’s already stopped.”
“Well, what—” Her face was lowered a little, still, like they do in all their dealings with a man so he don’t ever know just where the lightning will strike next. “You are not married, are you?” I said.
“No.”
“Oh,” I said. “And how long has it been since it stopped? about five months maybe?”
“It ain’t been but two,” she said.