“No, it ain't!” declared Abner, vigorously. “No, sirree! ‘Hold fast’ is my nater. I stan' out ag'in' my enemies till the last cow comes home. But when they come wadin' in through the snow, with their feet soppin' wet, an' coughin' fit to turn themselves inside out, an' their daughter is there, an' you've sort o' made it up with her, an' we're all campin' out in a barn, don't you see—”
“No, I can't see it,” replied M'rye, regretful but firm. “They always said we Ramswells had Injun blood in us somewhere. An' when I get an Injun streak on me, right down in the marrow o' my bones, why, you musn't blame me—or feel hard if—if I—”
“No-o,” said Abner, with reluctant conviction, “I s'pose not. I dare say you're actin' accordin' to your lights. An' besides, he'll be goin' the first thing after breakfast.”
“An' you ain't mad, Abner?” pleaded M'rye, almost tremulously, as if frightened at the dimensions of the victory she had won.
“Why, bless your heart, no,” answered the farmer, with a glaring simulation of easy-mindedness. “No—that's all right, mother!”
Then with long heavy-footed strides the farmer marched past me and out into the cow-yard.
[CHAPTER XIII
THE BREAKFAST]
If there was ever a more curious meal in Dearborn County than that first breakfast of ours in the barn, I never heard of it.