As a quick step sounded outside, she lowered herself slowly to a high-backed chair and waited, hands locked closely upon her lap.
The door opened and her husband entered. He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at his wife, and the low whistle died on his lips as he passed over to the long roller towel hanging above the wash-bench and proceeded to dry his hands.
He was a medium sized man, with brown wavy hair and a beard which failed to conceal the glad boyishness of a face that would never quite be old. The eyes he turned upon the woman when she sharply spoke his name were blue and tranquil.
"Yes, Mary?" he responded gently.
"I want'a tell you that I'm tired of bein' the slave of you an' your son," she burst out. "One of these days I'll be packin' up and goin' to my home folks in Nova Scotia."
Wilson averted his face and proceeded to straighten the towel on the roller. His action seemed to infuriate the woman.
Her lips tightened. Her hands unclenched and gripped the table as she slowly arose.
"You—" she commenced, her voice tense with passion, "you—" she checked herself. Unconsciously one of the groping hands had come in contact with the soft leather cover of a book which lay on the table.
It was the family Bible. She had placed it there after reading her son Anson his evening chapter. Slowly she mastered herself and sank back into her chair.
Wilson came over and laid a work-hardened hand gently on her heaving shoulder.