"Yes, I did, and I'd do it again," said John doggedly. "Do you think I'm goin' to have the neighbors tormentin' the life out of you on account of that—"
He stopped short, for a damp towel was against his face, and Mary's bare arms were around his neck.
"Oh, John! And that was the reason you asked Sally to come back. I've been feeling so hurt, for I thought it looked as if you didn't care for me. I might have known better. Please forgive me. I'll never think such a thing of you again."
There was something damp on the other side of his face now, and reaching around John drew the tired wife down on the bench beside him and let her sob out her joy and her weariness on his shoulder.
"But it was a help," she sighed at last, wiping her eyes on her kitchen apron. "And I don't know how I'm going to do my spring sewing without it."
John stretched out his right leg, thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a ragged leather purse, not too well filled.
"What's mine's yours, Mary," he said, tossing it into her lap. "Get a seamstress to do your sewing. If I catch you at that machine again, I'll make kindlin' wood and old iron out of it, and if that agent ever comes on the place again with his blamed charts, there's a loaded shotgun waitin' for him."