"I don't care! I will speak!" snapped his vixenish wife, turning to face him.
"And ef you do I'll choke you."
"You would? You'd raise your hand to the mother of Silas?"
"Yes, and wring your blasted neck if you don't mind me when I tell you to shut up."
Whether Uncle Thatcher had ever found force necessary to maintain his authority in the household or not, was best known to him and his wife; but at all events she did not seem to regard his threat as an idle one, for with a snort of baffled rage she sprang up and rushed into the house, without uttering another word.
Mary was standing with her back toward the door, with her hands covering her face, and crying. Uncle Thatcher laid one of his big hands on her shoulder and patting it gently, as he would have soothed a horse, said to her:
"Come, little girl. Don't cry any more. I ain't a going to have you plagued out of your life about that cuss. Go to bed now. And just tell me if she tries to worry you any more."
He disappeared inside the door, and Mary, wiping her eyes, followed him, passing to her little room, but sleep was slow in coming to her hot eyes and her last waking thought was:
"Who did uncle mean by 'that cuss'? Was it Dorn or Silas?"
But at length the weary lids closed and in happy dreamland, far away from care, and fear, and strife, she wandered with her lover.