“—An’ yore daddy was a regular ordained preacher.”
“What’s the matter with ye, anyways?” she went on querulously. “Ye been a-quarlin’ with yore own people well as me?”
“My own daddy jest now ordered me outen his house. I’m nuvver goin’ thar no more.”
“Huh! I reckon yore own free-thinkin’ ways druv it on ye.”
“He burned my fiddle!” said David Joslin, with sudden resentment.
“Ye mought have expected it—goin’ up thar to play a fiddle in a preacher’s house!”
“I jest had her strung up for the fust time,” rejoined her husband. “I was a-playin’ ‘Barbara Allen.’ My daddy accused me of bein’ sinful. We’ve got it hard enough livin’ in these hills without being damned when we die.”
“Hush, Dave! Be keerful of what ye say.”
“I’m a-bein’ keerful. I’m castin’ up accounts this very day. I been castin’ up accounts fer some time. I’m thinkin’ of what that new doctor said to me. That was preachin’ sich as I nuvver heern tell of afore in these hills. I wish’t he’d come here an’ stay right along.”