“It's according to how you feel,” Phebe continued; “some like to get up of a black winter morning and fight the kitchen fire. I don't. Some women are happy handing plates to their husband while he puts down a square feed. Not in mine.”
“The loneliness is what I hate,” Hannah added.
“It's hell,” the other agreed. “Excuse me, ma.”
Hannah went on: “And you get old without ever seeing things. There is all that you tell about going on—those crowds and the jewels and dresses, the parties and elegant times; but there is never a whisper of it in Greenstream; nothing but the frogs that I could fairly scream at—and maybe a church social.” As she talked Hannah avoided Celvin Stammark's gaze.
“Me and you'll have a conversation,” Phebe promised her recklessly.
Choking with rage Calvin rose. “I might as well move along,” he asserted.
“Don't get heated,” Phebe advised him. “I wouldn't break up your happy home, only I want Hannah to have an idea of what's what. I don't doubt you'll get her for a wife.”
“There's nothing but slaving for a woman round here,” Mrs. Braley put in. “I'm right glad Phebe had so much spirit.”
Richmond Braley evidently thought it was time for certain reservations. “You mustn't come down so hard on Calvin and me,” he said practically. “We're both likely young fellows.”
“I'll be here evening after to-morrow,” Calvin told Hannah in a low voice.