“Not goin’! Dear heart, what’s come over ye?”
“I’m not goin’,” was all Gladys obstinately replied.
This was all the good deacon could get from her. Nor would she stir from her place by the fire.
“Mam, where’s my Sunday socks?” he called from upstairs.
“How should I be knowin’?”
“But I cannot find them,” was the distressed answer, while bureau drawers flew in and out.
“Mam,” he called again, “I can’t find them whatever, an’ my grey socks are not here, either.”
“They’re in the mendin’ basket to be darned.”
“But, mam, then where’s the other pair of greys?”