There was another pause. Jim Lee softly drew on his freshly tallowed boots, and then stood up an tried them by raising his heels one after the other bending the boots at the toes as if testing a couple of Damascus sword blades.
“I don't like this here Ed Church sparkin' our Lide,” remarked Jim Lee at last; “bimeby they'll want to get married.”
“Father!” said Aunt Ann, raising her blue eyes with a look of cold criticism from the mince-meat she was massacring.
“Has he asked Lide yet?” said Jim Lee.
“No, he ain't,” replied Aunt Ann, “but he's goin' to.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know?” repeated Aunt Ann, as she set the chopping-bowl on the kitchen table, and turned to put a few select sticks of maple into the oven to the end that they become kiln-dried and highly inflammable; “how do I know Ed Church is goin' to marry Lide? Humph! I can see it.”
“I'm goin' to put a stop to it,” said Jim Lee. “This Church boy is goin' to keep away from Lide.”
“Father, you're goin' to do nothing of the kind,” and Aunt Ann's eyes began to sparkle. “You can run the farm and Ezra, father; I'll run Lide and the house. The only person who's goin' to have a syllable to say about Lide's marryin' when the time comes, is Lide herself. If she wants Ed Church she's goin' to have him.”
“Aunt Ann, I'm s'prised at you upholdin' for this Church boy!” Jim Lee threw into his tone a strain of strong reproof. “Ed Church drinks.”