He looked at her with the most miserable face I ever saw, but he didn't say anything. She sighed, the little wretch.
"We've all made mistakes," she said, "and not the least was my thinking that I—well, never mind. I dare say we will manage somehow."
He got up then, his face twisted with misery.
"Say it," he said. "You hate me; you shiver if I touch your hand—oh, I'm not very keen, but I saw that."
"The remedy for that is very, simple," she replied coolly. "You needn't touch my hand."
"Stop!" I snapped. "Just stop before you say something you'll be sorry for. Of course, you hate each other. It beats me, anyhow, why two people who get married always want to get away by themselves until they're so sick of each other that they don't get over it the rest of their lives. The only sensible honeymoon I ever heard of was when one of the chambermaids here married a farmer in the neighborhood. It was harvest and he couldn't leave, so she went ALONE to see her folks and she said it beat having him along all hollow."
She was setting out the supper, putting things down with a bang. He didn't move, although he must have been starving.
"Another thing I'd advise," I said. "Eat first and talk after. You'll see things different after you've got something in your stomach."
"I wish you wouldn't meddle, Minnie!" she snapped, and having put down her own plate and knife and fork, not laying a place for him, she went over and tried to get one of the potatoes from the fire.
Well, she burnt her finger, or pretended to, and I guess her solution was as good as mine, for she began to cry, and when I left he was tying it up with a bit of his handkerchief; if she shivered when he kissed it I didn't notice it. They were to come up to the house after her father left in the morning, and I was to dismiss all the old help and get new ones so he could take charge and let Mr. Pierce go.