Martha shrugged. "Come on, now, Ma, cheer up! I didn't mean to hurt your feelin's. It's just I nacherly distrust Mrs. Peckett. I used to think she was good, firstoff. But she's as shifty as dust! I wouldn't put it before her to take anything she got a-holt of—the innocentest thing, an' twist it into what'd scandalize your name, so you'd never get rid of the smutch of it, however you'd try. The worst things ever I heard of the folks in this place, Mrs. Peckett told me. It's took me over a year to find out most of'm's just mischeevious tattle. You can lock up against a thief, but you can't pertec' yourself from a liar."
Ma made no response, beyond blinking very fast for a second or so, but that was enough for Martha. Recognizing it as the sign of a coming deluge, she hastily changed the subject.
"What do you hear from the folks down home, these days?" she asked affably.
"No more than yourself. Sam got a letter from one o' them (Andy, I'm thinkin') this mornin'. Didn't he be after readin' it to youse before he went out?"
"No, he did not."
"I thought surely he would be tellin' you, that are his wife, even if he kep' his old mother in ignorance. That's the way it is wit' childern, these times."
"For the love o' Mike!" Martha murmured beneath her breath.
When Sam came in, shortly after, had silently eaten his supper, and was preparing to settle down for a bout with The New England Farmer, she proceeded to take him to task on his mother's behalf.
"Ma feels kind o' sore because you didn't show her the letter you got this mornin' from Andy."
Sam pulled off his shoes with a jerk. "How'd she know I got a letter from Andy?"