Agnes cried quickly:
"Oh, don't do that, Will! It ain't her plate. It's my plate, and I can break every plate in the house if I want to," she cried defiantly.
"'Course you can," Will agreed.
"Wal, she can't! Not while I'm around," put in Daddy. "I've helped to pay f'r them plates, if she does call 'em her'n—"
"What the devul is all this row about? Agg, can't you get along without stirring up the old folks every time I'm out o' the house?"
The speaker was Ed, now a tall and slouchily dressed man of thirty-two or three; his face still handsome in a certain dark, cleanly-cut style, but he wore a surly look as he lounged in with insolent swagger, clothed in greasy overalls and a hickory shirt.
"Hello, Will! I heard you'd got home. John told me as I came along."
They shook hands, and Ed slouched down on the lounge. Will could have kicked him for laying the blame of the dispute upon Agnes; it showed him in a flash just how he treated her. He disdained to quarrel; he simply silenced and dominated her.
Will asked a few questions about crops, with such grace as he could show, and Ed, with keen eyes fixed on Will's face, talked easily and stridently.
"Dinner ready?" he asked of Agnes. "Where's Pete?"
"He's asleep."
"All right. Let 'im sleep. Well, let's go out an' set up. Come, Dad, sling away that Bible and come to grub. Mother, what the devul are you snifflin' at? Say, now, look here! If I hear any more about this row, I'll simply let you walk down to meetin'. Come, Will, set up."
He led the way out into the little kitchen where the dinner was set.
"What was the row about? Hain't been breakin' some dish, Agg?"
"Yes, she has," broke in the old lady.
"One o' the blue ones?" winked Ed.
"No, thank goodness, it was a white one."
"Well, now, I'll git into that dod-gasted cubberd some day an' break the whole eternal outfit. I ain't goin' to have this damned jawin' goin' on," he ended, brutally unconscious of his own "jawin'."
After this the dinner proceeded in comparative silence, Agnes sobbing under breath. The room was small and very hot; the table was warped so badly that the dishes had a tendency to slide to the centre; the walls were bare plaster, grayed with time; the food was poor and scant, and the flies absolutely swarmed upon everything, like bees. Otherwise the room was clean and orderly.
"They say you've made a pile o' money out West, Bill. I'm glad of it. We fellers back here don't make anything. It's a dam tight squeeze. Agg, it seems to me the flies are devilish thick to-day. Can't you drive 'em out?"
Agnes felt that she must vindicate herself a little.
"I do drive 'em out, but they come right in again. The screen-door is broken and they come right in."
"I told Dad to fix that door."
"But he won't do it for me."
Ed rested his elbows on the table and fixed his bright black eyes on his father.
"Say, what d' you mean by actin' like a mule? I swear I'll trade you off f'r a yaller dog. What do I keep you round here for anyway—to look purty?"
"I guess I've as good a right here as you have, Ed Kinney."
"Oh, go soak y'r head, old man. If you don't 'tend out here a little better, down goes your meat-house! I won't drive you down to meetin' till you promise to fix that door. Hear me!"
Daddy began to snivel. Agnes could not look up for shame. Will felt sick. Ed laughed.
"I c'n bring the old man to terms that way; he can't walk very well late years, an' he can't drive my colt. You know what a cuss I used to be about fast nags? Well, I'm just the same. Hobkirk's got a colt I want. Say, that reminds me: your team's out there by the fence. I forgot. I'll go out and put 'em up."
"No, never mind; I can't stay but a few minutes."
"Goin' to be round the country long?"
"A week—maybe."
Agnes looked up a moment, and then let her eyes fall.
"Goin' back West, I s'pose?"
"No. May go East, to Europe, mebbe."
"The devul y' say! You must 'a' made a ten-strike out West."
"They say it didn't come lawful," piped Daddy, over his blackberries and milk.
"Oh, you shet up, who wants your put-in? Don't work in any o' your Bible on us."
Daddy rose to go into the other room.
"Hold on, old man. You goin' to fix that door?"
"Course I be," quavered he.
"Well see 't y' do, that's all. Now get on y'r duds, an' I'll go an' hitch up." He rose from the table. "Don't keep me waiting."
He went out unceremoniously, and Agnes was alone with Will.
"Do you go to church?" he asked. She shook her head. "No, I don't go anywhere now. I have too much to do; I haven't strength left. And I'm not fit anyway."
"Agnes, I want to say something to you; not now—after they're gone."
He went into the other room, leaving her to wash the dinner-things. She worked on in a curious, almost dazed way, a dream of something sweet and irrevocable in her eyes. Will represented so much to her. His voice brought up times and places that thrilled her like song. He was associated with all that was sweetest and most care-free and most girlish in her life.
Ever since the boy had handed her that note she had been re-living those days. In the midst of her drudgery she stopped to dream—to let some picture come back into her mind. She was a student again at the Seminary, and stood in the recitation-room with suffocating beat of the heart; Will was waiting outside—waiting in a tremor like her own, to walk home with her under the maples.
Then she remembered the painfully sweet mixture of pride and fear with which she walked up the aisle of the little church behind him. Her pretty new gown rustled, the dim light of the church had something like romance in it, and he was so strong and handsome. Her heart went out in a great silent cry to God—
"Oh, let me be a girl again!"
She did not look forward to happiness. She hadn't power to look forward at all.
As she worked, she heard the high, shrill voices of the old people as they bustled about and nagged at each other.
"Ma, where's my specticles?"
"I ain't seen y'r specticles."
"You have, too."
"I ain't neither."
"You had 'em this forenoon."
"Didn't no such thing. Them was my own brass-bowed ones. You had your'n jest 'fore goin' to dinner. If you'd put 'em into a proper place you'd find 'em again."
"I want 'o know if I would," the old man snorted.
"Wal, you'd orter know."
"Oh, you're awful smart, ain't yeh? You never have no trouble, and use mine—do yeh?—an' lose 'em so 't I can't—"
"And if this is the thing that goes on when I'm here it must be hell when visitors are gone," thought Will.
"Willy, ain't you goin' to meetin'?"
"No, not to-day. I want to visit a little with Agnes, then I've got to drive back to John's."
"Wal, we must be goin'. Don't you leave them dishes f'r me to wash," she screamed at Agnes as she went out the door.