“Your father is the head of his fam’ly,” said her mother again. “It ain’t my place to go ag’in him. He knows what’s best fer yew an’ Dollie!”
Marion groaned aloud and rocked back and forth on the floor.
Dollie opened the door of the little parlor where she had been busy dusting and stared at her sister.
She had a big bandanna tied over her saucy curls, and with her dainty face flushed with exercise she looked like some quaint, old-fashioned picture.
“Silas will make her a good husband, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Marlowe, meekly.
“O’ course he will, Marthy,” said the old farmer, who came in just as she spoke. “An’ what’s more, I’m a-gittin’ mighty sick of this tarnal nonsense! Dollie hez got tew marry Sile, an’ thet’s all ther’ is abaout it! Why, there’s dozens of gals as would jump at ther’ chance! ’Pears tew me thet Dollie is determined ter fly in ther face o’ Providence in ther foolishest manner. She’d orter be a-thankin’ her stars fer gittin’ sech a husband!”
Dollie stood, duster in hand, staring at her father as he spoke. There was a dull look in her eye, as if she had not fully understood him.
“Dollie! Dollie! Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you tell father what you think! Oh, Dollie, what is the matter?” cried Marion sharply.
“I—I don’t want to marry Silas,” she finally whispered. “You tell him, Marion,” she turned to her sister appealingly, and gazed from one to another of the little group with a frightened face. She seemed like one in a trance who was trying to grasp the situation.
Marion sprang forward swiftly and threw her arms around her sister. There was something wrong with Dollie, but she had not time to puzzle out what it was—this question of her marrying Silas must be settled at once and forever.