“I don’t call it bein’ good,” said Isaphene. “Why shouldn’t he let you have the money? You planted, an’ weeded, an’ picked the strawberries; an’ you fed an’ set the chickens, an’ gethered the eggs; an’ you’ve had all the tendin’ of the geese an’ turkeys an’ calves—to say nothin’ of the cows bawlin’ over the bars,” she added, with a sly laugh. “I’d say you only had your rights when you get the money for such things.”
“Oh, yes, that’s fine talk.” Mrs. Bridges nodded her head with an air of experience. “But it ain’t all men-folks that gives you your rights; so when one does, I say he deserves credit.”
“Well, I wouldn’t claim anybody’d been good to me just because he give me what I’d worked for an’ earned. Now, if he’d give you all the money from the potato patch every year, or the hay meadow, or anything he’d done all the workin’ with himself—I’d call that good in him. He never done anything like that, did he?”
“No, he never,” replied Mrs. Bridges, testily. “An’ what’s more, he ain’t likely to—nor any other man I know of! If you get a man that gives you all you work for an’ earn, you’ll be lucky—with all your airs!”
“Well, I guess I’ll manage to get my rights, somehow,” said Isaphene, beginning to butter the cake-pan.
“Somebody’s comin’!” exclaimed her mother, lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper.
“Who is it?” Isaphene stood up straight, with that little quick beating of mingled pleasure and dismay that the cry of company brings to country hearts.
“I can’t see. I don’t want to be caught peepin’. I can see it’s a woman, though; she’s just passin’ the row of hollyhocks. Can’t you stoop down an’ peep? She won’t see you ’way over there by the table.”
Isaphene stooped and peered cautiously through the wild cucumber vines that rioted over the kitchen window.
“Oh, it’s Mis’ Hanna!”