Fanny clutched the girl's arm in a grasp so hard that it left a blue mark on the tender flesh. She looked at her, but did not speak one word.
“Now, mother,” said Ellen, “you must not say one word to father to scold him. He's got enough to bear as it is.”
Fanny pushed her away with sudden fierceness. “I guess I don't need to have my own daughter teach me my duty to my husband,” said she. “Where is he?”
“Down in the orchard.”
“Well, ring the bell for dinner loud, so he can hear it.”
When Andrew came shuffling wearily up from the orchard, Fanny met him at the corner of the house, out of sight from the windows. She was flushed and perspiring, clad in a coarse cotton wrapper, revealing all her unkempt curves. She went close to him, and thrust one large arm through his. “Look here, Andrew,” said she, in the tenderest voice he had ever heard from her, a voice so tender that it was furious, “you needn't say one word. What's done's done. We shall get along somehow. I ain't afraid. Come in and eat your dinner!”
The dressmaking work went on as usual after dinner. Andrew had disappeared, going down the road towards the shop. He tried for a job at Briggs's, with no success, then drifted to the corner grocery.
Ellen sat until nearly three o'clock sewing. Then she went up-stairs and got her hat, and went secretly out of the back door, through the west yard, that her mother should not see her. However, her grandmother called after her, and wanted to know where she was going.
“Down street, on an errand,” answered Ellen.
“Well, keep on the shady side,” called her grandmother, thinking the girl was bound to the stores for some dressmaking supplies.