“Is th’ house done?” Mrs. Farnshaw asked, her mind, like her hands, filled with practical concerns.
“Almost,” Elizabeth returned as she rose to get the broom with which to sweep the ever dusty floor. “It’s ready to paint,” she added.
“Is it goin’ t’ be painted? Will it be white and have green shutters?”
Elizabeth laughed at the gratified pride in her mother’s tone.
“I don’t know, ma,” she said, looking for the shovel, which, when it could be located, served as a dustpan.
“Didn’t he ask you what colour to put on it?” the mother asked, fishing the shovel out of the rubbish collected behind the rusty cook stove. “Now look here, Lizzie,” she added with sudden suspicion, “don’t you go an’ spoil him right t’ begin with. You let him see that you want things your own way about th’ house. If you set your foot down now, You’ll have it easier all th’ way through. That’s where I made my mistake. I liked t’ give up t’ your pa at first an’ then—an’ then he got t’ thinkin’ I didn’t have no right t’ want anything my way.”
Mrs. Farnshaw filled the hungry stove with cobs and studied the subject dejectedly.
“I don’t get my way about nothin’. I can’t go t’ town t’ pick out a new dress that is bought with money I get from th’ eggs, even. He’ll manage most any way t’ get off t’ town so’s t’ keep me from knowin’ he’s goin’, an’ then make me send th’ eggs an’ butter by some one that’s goin’ by. He makes me stay home t’ watch something if he has t’ let me know he’s goin’ his self. I don’t own my house, nor my children, nor myself.”
The undercurrent of Elizabeth’s thoughts as she listened to the spiritless tale was, “but John’s so different from pa.”
“I reckon I’ll never have no help from you now,” Mrs. Farnshaw continued in the same whine.