“Look here, Abel,” cried Mary, catching him by the wrist, and dragging at it so that he started to his feet and they stood face to face, the stunted brother and the well-grown girl wonderfully equal in size, and extremely alike in physique and air; “if you dare to talk to me again like that, we shall quarrel.”
“Well, let’s quarrel, then.”
“What?” cried Mary, staring, for this was a new phase in her brother’s character.
“I say, let’s quarrel, then,” cried Abel, folding his arms. “Do you think I’ve been blind? Do you think I haven’t seen what’s been going on, and how that man has served you? Why, it has nearly broken poor old Bart’s heart.”
“Abel!”
“I don’t care, Polly, I will speak now. You don’t like Bart.”
“I do. He is a good true fellow as ever stepped, but—”
“Yes, I know. It ar’n’t nat’ral or you to like him as he likes you; but you’ve been a fool, Polly, to listen to that fine jack-a-dandy; and—curse him! I’ll half-kill him next time we meet!”
Mary tried to speak, but her emotion choked her.
“You—you don’t know what you are saying,” she panted at last.