The woman simpered, made an inarticulate sound, and hurriedly resumed her seat and her apple-cutting.
“Won’t you se’ down, Mr. Baker?” she asked.
Her fingers trembled as she took the darning-needle and jabbed it through an apple quarter. The needle went into her flesh also. She gave a little cry and thrust her finger into her mouth. Her large, pale eyes turned wistfully towards her companion. The faded, already elderly mouth quivered.
“I’m jest as scar’t ‘s I c’n be if I see blood,” she whispered.
Mr. Baker’s heavy under lip twitched; his face softened. But he spoke roughly.
“You needn’t mind that bit er blood,” he said, “that won’t hurt nothin’. I don’t care if I do se’ down. I ain’t drove any this mornin’. I c’n jest as well as not take hold ‘n’ help ye. I s’pose Mandany left a thunderin’ lot for ye to do while she’s gone?”
“Two bushels,” was the answer.
“The old cat! That’s too much. But ‘t won’t be for both of us, will it, Ann?”
The woman said, “No.”
She looked for an instant intently at the man who had drawn his chair directly opposite her. He was already paring an apple.