The dust clogged their throats, and the heat parched them, so that the women were always making ice water. They had cleaned up an old ice box and begun to buy fifty pound blocks of ice in town, as the electric refrigerator came nowhere near providing enough ice for the crowds who ate and drank there.

One afternoon, as the women sat clucking softly, a new carload of people pulled up at the gate. It was a Cadillac, black grayed with the dust of the road, its windows closed tight so you knew that the people who climbed out of it would be cool and unwrinkled. They were an old fat couple (as Linda Kay described them to herself), a thick middle-aged man, and a girl about ten or twelve.

There was much embracing, much exclaiming. ``Cousin Ada! Cousin John!'' ``Cousin Lura!'' ``Cousin Howard!'' ``And how is she?'' ``About the same, John, about the same.''

All the women got up and offered their chairs, and when they were all seated again, the guests made their inquiries and their explanations.

``We were on our vacation in Canada,'' Howard explained, in a muffled voice that must have been used to booming, ``and the news didn't catch up with us till we were nearly home. We came on as soon as we could.''

There was the suggestion of ice water, and -- in spite of the protest ``We're not really thirsty'' -- Linda Kay, to escape the stuffy air and the smothering soft voices, hurried to the kitchen.