"Then all that remains is to say good-by," said Martha gravely, rising and standing with quiet dignity beside her husband.
Mrs. Peckett took a step toward the door. Then abruptly she turned and extended her hand to Martha.
Sam Slawson shook his head. "No, you don't!" he forbade decidedly.
"I guess we better wait a while, an' see how we feel about each other later," Martha explained without animus. "My husban' says, 'No, you don't!' so' o' course that settles it for the present, anyhow. It's a kind o' pity things has come to this pass, for I don't like to be on the outs with anybody. But you certaintly took a risk, Mrs. Peckett. If my husban' had been like some men——! I don't see how you dared do it, knowin' you're a woman, yourself, with a man o' your own. P'raps 'twas because you'd set out to make me over, that you hold me so cheap. I always noticed folks is never so choice o' made-over things. They think the best wear's out of'm anyhow, an' it don't matter if they do use'm sort o' careless now. But it is matter, for it's you'll be blamed for not bein' clean, not the thing you've dirtied. Besides, sometimes a made-over will serve you better than new. I give you leave to remember that, Mrs. Peckett."
When their visitor was gone, Ma began to cry aloud.
"The fear is in me heart. I haven't a limb to move, the way I'd be dreadin' Sam's punishin' me!" she moaned, rocking backward and forward in her chair.
"He'll not punish you, Ma!" Martha promised.
Still Sam bent stormy brows upon his mother.
"I'll not punish you," he said, "but after what's happened, I guess we'll all feel happier if you make your home away from this."
"I'll die ere ever I'll go back to New York City to live wit' the likes o' them as don't want me!" sobbed the old woman explosively.