"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd 'lows John an' you has been a-keepin' comp'ny unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.
Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.
"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don't 'pear to believe me."
"No; for I 'lowed that you had always been a good child an' wouldn't go ag'in' me."
A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl's face.
"Oh, Ma, it couldn't be helped!"
Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately, and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.
"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding's daughter has plum' forgot all her pa's teachin's?" the widow demanded, sternly.
"Ma, it ain't that. I didn't 'low to keer fer John, an' he didn't 'low to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in a faltering tone, her face deeply red. She looked appealingly from Mr. Hurd to her mother. "Don't turn ag'in' us. We lowed it wusn't right not to tell you, but—"
"It ain't no use to be a-palaverin' with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding," said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly. "It's me you've got to listen to, an' if there is a spark o' pride or feelin' in your heart, it's bound to be teched. John's the last child, out'n nine, that's been left to me an' his ma; but I'll turn him out o' doors, I'll drive him plum' from the country before he shall marry you, an' the curse o' the Almighty shall foller him."