With no other visible reason but his customary obstinacy, John insisted upon the child being taken.
“I’ve got to get back early and get the coloured clothes folded down. Every one of the boys had a white shirt and two or three collars this week, so I asked mother to keep him for me,” Elizabeth said.
“Now see here,” John argued. “Mother ’ll fold those clothes and you can just as well take him along and make a decent visit. They’re the nicest people in the country, according to some of the neighbours.”
Elizabeth’s laugh nettled her husband. When he appeared with the wagon, she was ready, with the baby in her arms.
The wind was keen and cold, the laprobes flew and fluttered in derisive refusal to be tucked in.
“Take the buggy in and have it mended the next time you go to town,” she said, with her teeth chattering, as they drew near to Luther’s home. “I want to go up to see ma before long and it’s almost impossible to keep a baby covered on this high seat.” She thought a while and then added, “I haven’t been home since I was married.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d ever want to go,” John replied ungraciously.
Tears of anger as well as mortification filled her eyes, and her throat would not work. It was to stop gossip as much as to see her mother that the girl desired to make the visit. The world was right: John was not proud of her.
The sight of the “shanty” as they turned the corner near Luther’s place brought a new train of thought. Dear, kindly, sweet-souled Luther! The world disapproved of his marriage too. He was coming toward them now, his ragged overcoat blowing about him as he jumped over the ridges made by the plow in turning out the late potatoes he had been digging.
“You carry the baby in for Lizzie, an’ I’ll tie these horses,” he said, beaming with cordiality. “Got caught with Sadie’s sickness an’ let half th’ potatoes freeze ’s hard ’s brickbats.”