"I guess you ain't been terribly happy here, my girl," he said gravely, unmindful of her question.
"What on earth makes you say that?"
"You've got too good a memory, I guess, and you ain't ever forgiven me for that first night."
It was the first time he had alluded to the subject for months. Would he never understand that she wanted to forget it! He might know that it always irritated her.
"I made up my mind very soon that I must accept the consequences of what I'd done. I've tried to fall in with your ways," she said coldly.
"You was clever enough to see that I meant to be the master in my own house and that I had the strength to make myself so."
How unlike his latter self this boastful speech was. But then he had been utterly unlike himself for several days. What did he mean? She knew him well enough by now to know that he never acted without meaning. But directness was one of his most admirable characteristics. It was unlike him to be devious, as he was being now. But if the winter had taught her anything, it had taught her patience.
"I've cooked for you, mended your clothes, and I've kept the shack clean. I've tried to be obliging and—and obedient." The last word was not yet an easy one to pronounce.
"I guess you hated me, though, sometimes." He gave a little chuckle.
"No one likes being humiliated; and you humiliated me."