“Why must ye forever be gallin’ me with that subject?” said Peternot, with a look of anguish. “You know I did what I thought was for the best. Come, I’ll start the fire for ye, and put the pot on, if that’ll make ye any better-natered.”
“I’m good-natered enough, but I should think somethin’ had riled you up,” returned the lady. “What is it?”
“Boys have been in the melon-patch, for one thing.”
“Been in the melon-patch! when ye stayed to hum a’most a puppus to keep watch on ’t!” And the good woman, having removed her Sunday cap, false hair and all, turned her thin face and scowling brows, crowned by a few thin gray locks, in amazement on her husband. “That’s a likely story! was ye asleep, I wonder?”
Peternot made no reply, but went on kindling the fire in the open fireplace, until his nephew came in.
“I took the horse to the barn; did you want the harness off?” said that young gentleman, standing with his gloves and hat on, watching his uncle.
There was a slight affectation of foppery about Byron,—something which the plain people of the neighborhood called “soft”; and as Peternot, on his rheumatic knees before the fire, looked up through the smoke and ashes he was blowing into his face, and saw his dainty nephew stand there gloved and grinning, something of his wife’s feeling towards that nice young man came over him,—or was it only his impatience at the smoke and ashes?
“Nat’rally, I want the harness off, arter the hoss has been standin’ in ’t a good part o’ the day!” he answered, crossly.
“Oh!” said Byron; “I rather thought so, but I didn’t know.”
“I should think any fool would know that!”