“Topknot hev jes kem off'n her nest with fourteen deedies, an' she an' 'Melia hev gone ter the barn ter see 'bout'n 'em.”
“Whar's Pete?”
“A-huntin'.”
A pause. The fire smouldered audibly; a hickory-nut fell with a sharp thwack on the clapboards of the roof, and rolled down and bounded to the ground.
Suddenly: “I seen yer dad ter-day,” he began, without coercion. “He gin me a cussin', in the courtroom, 'fore all the folks. He cussed all the Kit-tredges, all o' 'em; him too”—he glanced in the direction of the cradle—“cussed 'em black an' blue, an' called me a thief fur marryin' ye an kerry-in' ye off.”
Her face turned scarlet, then pale. She sat down, her trembling hands reaching out to rock the cradle, as if the youthful Kittredge might be disturbed by the malediction hurled upon his tribe. But he slept sturdily on.
“Waal, now,” she said, making a great effort at self-control, “ye oughtn't ter mind it. Ye know he war powerful tried. I never purtended ter be ez sweet an' pritty ez the baby air, but how would you-uns feel ef somebody ye despised war ter kem hyar an' tote him off from we-uns forever?”
“I'd cut thar hearts out,” he said, with prompt barbarity.
“Thar, now!” exclaimed his wife, in triumphant logic.
He gloomily eyed the smouldering coals. He was beginning to understand the paternal sentiment. By his own heart he was learning the heart of his wife's father.