"Speak," said he.
"Submit, mind your father," said Mrs. Thompson.
"What did she bring you the doll baby for?" asked Grandmother Thompson.
"Sarah—was going to give me Thankful if—our turkey weighed most, and I was going to—give her my work-box if hers weighed most," said Submit jerkily. Her lips felt stiff.
Her father looked very sober and stern. He turned to his father. When Grandfather Thompson was at home, every one deferred to him. Even at eighty he was the recognized head of the house. He was a wonderful old man, tall and soldierly, and full of a grave dignity. He looked at Submit, and she shrank.
"Do you know," said he, "that you have been conducting yourself like unto the brawlers in the taverns and ale-houses?"
"Yes, sir," murmured Submit, although she did not know what he meant.
"No godly maid who heeds her elders will take part in any such foolish and sinful wager," her grandfather continued.
Submit arose, hugging Thankful convulsively. She glanced wildly at her great-grandmother's musket over the shelf. The same spirit that had aimed it at the Indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly: "Our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she. "I put the Revolutionary bullets in his crop."
There was silence. Submit's heart beat so hard that Thankful quivered.