"Oh, what do I care for yo' nonsense?"
"Nonsense! The affairs of the human fam'ly ain't nonsense, is they? Heigho, but she's a mighty good woman."
"Of course," said Margaret, crossing the room and sitting down in a rocking-chair. "Of course. A man thinks every woman's good—but his wife."
"Had to break out, didn't you? Have I said you wan't good?"
"Might as well say it as to act it."
"How am I actin' it?"
"By not lovin' me, that's how."
"Not lovin' you. Have you got any postal-kyard or tillygram to that effeck? I ain't sent you no sich news. Look here, did you ever notice that when a woman's daughter gits up about grown—when the young fellers begin to cut scollops about her—did you ever notice that about that time she begins to complain that her husband don't love her? Hah? Did you?"
"Oh, it's no sich of a thing," she replied, slowly rocking. "You know you don't love me as much as you did yo' fust wife."
For a time the old fellow gazed at her, saying nothing; and then came slow, deep-rumbling words: "Margaret, air you jealous o' that po' little grave down yander under the hill? You never seed her, the mother o' my two sons that went with me to pour out their blood fur their country; and when she hearn that they wan't a comin' back, she pined away and died and was buried under the tree whar we seed her standin' jest befo' we went down beyant the hill. You ain't jealous o' that weak little woman, air you?"