"It's a wonder ye ain't all dead—livin' here on the bank of a pond like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t' be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so unhuman."
A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him.
"I mean jest what I say an' more too," Sinth went on. "You 'ain't done right, an' if you can't see it you 'ain't got common-sense. My stars! I don't care how much trouble you've had. A man that can't take his pack full o' trouble an' keep agoin' is a purty poor stick. I know what 'tis to be disapp'inted. Good gracious me! you needn't think you're the only one that ever got hurt. The Lord has took away ev'rything I loved 'cept one. He 'ain't left me nothin' but a brother an' a weak back an' lots o' work t' do, an' a pair o' hands an' feet an' a head like a turnup. He's blessed you in a thousan' ways. He's gi'n ye health an' strength an' talents an' a? gal that's more like an angel than a human bein', an' you don't do nothin' but set aroun' here an' sulk an' write portry!"
Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look of unspeakable contempt at him. The face of Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, somehow, disarmed the man—it was like the honesty of his own conscience. There had been a note of strange authority in her voice—like that which had come to him now and then out of the depths of his own spirit.
"Suppose every one that got a taste o' trouble was t' fly mad like a little boy an' say he wouldn't play no more," Sinth went on. "My land! we wouldn't be no better than a lot o' cats an' dogs that's all fit out an' hid under a barn! Cyrus Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You won't play yerself an' ye won't let these women play nuther. You're as selfish as a bear. You 'ain't got no right t' keep 'em here, an' if you don't know it you better go t' school somewhere. Now there's my mind right out plain an' square."
She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little squirm of indignation.
Dunmore paced up and down for half a moment, a troubled look on his face. He stopped in front of Sinth.
"Boneka, madam," said he, extending his hand.
"I forgive," said Sinth, quickly, "providin' you'll try to do better. It's nonsense to forgive any one 'less he'll quit makin' it nec'sary."
"I acknowledge here in the presence of my mother," said Dunmore, "that all you say is quite right. I have been a fool."