Widow Ross laid her pipe on the table.
“Tommy,” she commanded, “you go right down to the spring and bring up that bucket of milk, and don’t you spill it, or I’ll pull every one of them red hairs out of your head. I don’t suppose you’ve lost your appetite none lately, Bill?”
“Periodically only, marm. I ain’t got over my likin’ for brick-cooked bread and milk, particularly the bread of a lady I know to be the best cook on Totherside.”
Mrs. Ross showed two rows of white teeth in a pleased smile. Then her face grew stern again.
“Totherside,” she flashed, “why, I don’t take that as much of a compliment, Bill Paisley. Ain’t I the only woman on Totherside?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, I mean on the whole country-side—Bridgetown included,” retrieved Bill gallantly.
“What be you all goin’ to do about Hallibut?” asked the woman, sitting down at the spinning-wheel.
Bill shook his long hair and chuckled.
“I got scolded once for sayin’ what I thought about sellin’ our timber, so don’t ask me.”
The widow’s heavy brows met in a frown.