“You'd better, I guess.”
“I've got my father's and brothers' supper to get, and other things to see to. Tell him he must leave me in peace to-day, or I'll never come.” Madelon's voice rose high and strident. She unfastened her cloak as if it choked her. Margaret looked at her, her small black eyes peering out wrathfully from her swathing woollens. She was as much wrapped up on this mild day as she had been when the cold was intense. A certain dogged attitude towards the weather Margaret Bean always took. On Thanksgiving Day she donned her winter garments; on May Day she exchanged them for her summer ones, regardless of the temperature. She never made any compromises or concessions. She sweltered in her full regalia of wools on mild spring days; she weathered the early November blasts in her straw bonnet and silk shawl, without an extra kerchief around her stiff old neck. To-day she would not loosen her wraps as she sat waiting for Madelon in the warm room, but remained all securely pinned and tied as when she entered.
However, her discomfort, although she would not yield to it, aroused her temper. “You'd better come,” said she, “or you'll be sorry.”
Madelon made no reply.
“He's sick,” said Margaret Bean; “he's took considerable worse.” She nodded her head angrily at Madelon.
“Is his cough worse?”
“He can scarcely sit up,” said Margaret Bean, with severe emphasis. She rose up stiffly, as if she had but one joint, so girt about was she. “If a woman's going to marry a man, I calculate it's her place to go to him when he's sick and wants her,” she added.
“Is his cough worse?”
“Ain't his cough bad all the time? Well, I'm going. If folks 'ain't got any feelings, they 'ain't. I've got to make some porridge for him.”
Madelon opened the door for her. “I'll come over after supper,” said she; “you can tell him so.”