"You were right, Deborah; but then, I was in the wrong. I should not have hurt him so."
The old woman chuckled as I spoke, as though I were trying to hoax her.
"And ef you wadn't in the wrong, they'd make ee in the wrong between 'em."
"Deborah," I said, "you must be in the wrong. You talk as though my mother were my enemy."
"Mawther!" she repeated, "who zed she was yer mawther?"
For a minute I did not know what to say. Was she not my mother? Of course she was. I had ever been taught to call her mother, and my father had ever called her his wife.
"Do you know what you are talking about?" I said, excitedly.
"Knaw!" she repeated. "Knaw! Iss, and I cud tell 'ee lots ov things, Maaster Roger, my deer."
"But what do you mean by hinting that my mother—that is—that—that she isn't my mother at all?"
"Why es it that she've bin allays agin 'ee, hi? Why have she allays tried to shaw that you was in the wrong and yer brother in the right? Why es it that your eyes es black and yer hair brown and curly, while yer brother and sisters ev got blue eyes and yella hair, tell me that, will 'ee, my deer?"