“It's that cursed money of your mother's makes you impudent!”
“If you could leave me moneyless, papa, it would make no difference. A woman that can shoe her own horse,—”
“Shoe her own horse!” cried her father.
“Yes, papa!—You couldn't!—And I made two of her shoes the last time! Wouldn't any woman that can do that, wouldn't she—to save herself from shame and disgust—to be queen over herself—wouldn't she take a place as house-maid or shop-girl rather than marry the man she didn't love?”
Mr. Wylder saw he had gone too far.
“You know more than is good!” he said. “But don't you mistake: you're mother's money is settled on you, but your father is your trustee!”
“My father is a gentleman!” rejoined Barbara—not so near the truth as she believed.
“Take you care how you push a gentleman,” rejoined her father.
“Not to love is not to marry—not if the man was a prince!” persisted Barbara.
She went to her mother's room, but said nothing of what had passed. She would not heat those ovens of wrath, the bosoms of her parents.