Charlotte spoke up suddenly; her blue eyes gleamed with steely light. She held her head high as she faced her aunt.
“I don't want any more talk about it, Aunt Hannah,” said she.
“Hey?”
“I don't want any more talk about it.”
“Well, I guess you'll have more talk about it; girls don't get jilted without there is talk generally. I guess you'll have to make up your mind to it, for all you put on such airs with your own aunt, who left her washin' an' come over here to take your part. I guess when you stand out in the road half an hour an' call a young man to come back, an' he don't come, that folks are goin' to talk some. Who's that comin' now?”
“It's Cephas,” whispered Mrs. Barnard, with a scared glance at Charlotte.
Cephas Barnard entered abruptly, and stood for a second looking at the company, while they looked back at him. His eyes were stolidly defiant, but he stood well back, and almost shrank against the door. There seemed to be impulses in Hannah's and Sylvia's faces confronting his.
He turned to his wife. “When you comin' home?” said he.
“Oh, Cephas! I jest ran over here a minute. I—wanted to see—if—Sylvy had any emptins. Do you want me an' Charlotte to come now?”
Cephas turned on his heel. “I think it's about time for you both to be home,” he grunted.