She looked at him with consternation. He sat down, drew her upon his lap, and told her, in plain, quiet voice, the whole matter.
“Don’t look so, Mary.”
“How?” she asked, in a husky voice and with flashing eye.
“Don’t breathe so short and set your lips. I never saw you look so, Mary, darling!”
She tried to smile, but her eyes filled.
“If you had been with me,” said John, musingly, “it wouldn’t have happened.”
“If—if”— Mary sat up as straight as a dart, the corners of her mouth twitching so that she could scarcely shape a word,—“if—if I’d been there, I’d have made you whip him!” She flouted her handkerchief out of her pocket, buried her face in his neck, and sobbed like a child.
“Oh!” exclaimed the tearful John, holding her away by both shoulders, tossing back his hair and laughing as she laughed,—“Oh! you women! You’re all of a sort! You want us men to carry your hymn-books and your iniquities, too!”
She laughed again.
“Well, of course!”