“I don't see what has got you into such a habit of sighing,” he said, brutally.
Fanny looked at him with reproachful anger. “Andrew Brewster, you ain't like yourself,” said she.
“I can't help it.”
“There's no need for you to pitch into me because you can't get work; I ain't to blame. I'm doing all I can. I won't stand it, and you might as well know it first as last.”
Fanny glared angrily at her husband, then the tears sprang to her eyes.
Andrew hesitated a moment, then he leaned over her and put his thin cheek against her rough black hair. “The Lord knows I don't mean to be harsh to you, you poor girl,” said he, “but I wish I was dead.”
Fanny seemed to spring into resistance like a wire. “Then you are a coward, Andrew Brewster,” said she, hotly. “Talk about wishin' you was dead. I 'ain't got time to die. You'd 'nough sight better go out into the yard and split up some of that wood.”
“I didn't mean to speak so, Fanny,” said Andrew, “but sometimes I get desperate, and I've been thinking of Ellen.”
“Don't you suppose I have?” asked Fanny, angrily.
“Well, there's one thing about it; we won't stand in her way,” said Andrew.