“That ain't so! Don't believe him, mother!” said Jonas from the sofa.
“And what did you do?” demanded Mrs. Brent with a frown.
“I laid him down on the snow and washed his face with soft snow.”
“You might have given him his death of cold,” said Mrs. Brent, with evident hostility. “I am not sure but the poor boy will have pneumonia now, in consequence of your brutal treatment.”
“And you have nothing to say as to his attack upon me?” said Phil indignantly.
“I have no doubt you have very much exaggerated it.”
“Yes, he has,” chimed in Jonas from the sofa.
Phil regarded his step-brother with scorn.
“Can't you tell the truth now and then, Jonas?” he asked contemptuously.
“You shall not insult my boy in my presence!” said Mrs. Brent, with a little spot of color mantling her high cheek-bones. “Philip Brent, I have too long endured your insolence. You think because I am a woman you can be insolent with impunity, but you will find yourself mistaken. It is time that you understood something that may lead you to lower your tone. Learn, then, that you have not a cent of your own. You are wholly dependent upon my bounty.”