"My brother Ernest returned thoughtfully to the kitchen. He was already a little abashed at his own violence. I followed him respectfully.
"'You didn't ought t'ave done that,' said my mother.
'What right 'as 'e to plant 'imself on you to be kept and waited on?'
''E wouldn't 'ave planted 'imself on me,' my mother replied. 'You get 'eated, Ernie, same as you used to do, and you won't listen to anything.'
"'I never did fancy uncle,' said Ernie.
"'When you get 'eated, Ernie, you seem to forget everything,' said my mother. 'You might've remembered 'e was my brother.'
"'Fine brother!' said Ernie. 'Why!—who started all that stealing? Who led poor father to drink and bet?'
"'All the same,' said my mother, 'you 'adn't no right to 'andle 'im as you did. And your poor father 'ardly cold in 'is grave!' She wept. She produced a black-bordered handkerchief and mopped her eyes. 'I did 'ope your poor father would 'ave a nice funeral—all the trouble and expense—and now you've spoilt it. I'll never be able to look back on this day with pleasure, not if I live to be a 'undred years. I'll always remember 'ow you spoilt your own father's funeral—turning on your uncle like this.'
"Ernest had no answer for her reproaches. 'He shouldn't 've argued and said what he did,' he objected.
"'And all so unnecessary! All along I've been trying to tell you you needn't worry about me. I don't want no lodging-'ouse in Cliffstone—with your uncle or without your uncle. I wrote to Matilda Good a week come Tuesday and settled everything with 'er—everything. It's settled.'