“I’ve heerd about ’em,” said Mrs. Palmer, with the placidity of a momentary triumph. “The people your mother worked out fer give ’em to her, didn’t they? My mother got her’n from her gran’mother. She never worked out. She never lived in much style, but she al’ays had a plenty.” “My-_O_!” said Mrs. Endey, scornfully. “I guess I’d best git the dinner on,” said Emarine. She pushed the silver to one side with a clatter. She brought some green corn from the porch and commenced tearing off the pale emerald husks. “D’you want I sh’u’d help shuck it?” said her mother. “No; I’m ust to doin’ ’t alone.” A silence fell upon all three. The fire made a cheerful noise; the kettle steamed sociably; some soup-meat, boiling, gave out a savory odor. Mrs. Endey leaned back comfortably in her rocking-chair. There was a challenge in the very fold of her hands in her lap. Mrs. Palmer sat erect, stiff and thin. The side of her face was toward Mrs. Endey. She never moved the fraction of an inch, but watched her hostilely out of the corner of her eye, like a hen on the defensive. It was Mrs. Endey who finally renewed hostilities. “Emarine,” she said, sternly, “what are you a-doin’? Shortenin’ your biscuits with _lard_?” “Yes.” Mrs. Endey sniffed contemptuously. “They won’t be fit to eat! You feathered your nest, didn’t you? Fer mercy’s sake! Can’t you buy butter to shorten your biscuits with? You’ll be makin’ patata soup next!” Then Mrs. Palmer stood up. There was a red spot on each cheek. “Mis’ Endey,” she said, “if yuh don’t like the ’comadations in this house, won’t you be so good ’s to go where they’re better? I must say I never wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in _my_ life! The hull town’s see ’em on your clo’s line, an’ tee-hee about it behind your back. I notice your daughter was mighty ready to git in here an’ shorten biscuits with lard, an’ use patched table-cloths, an’—” “_Oh, mother!_” It was her son’s voice. He stood in the door. His face was white and anxious. He looked at the two women; then his eyes turned with a terrified entreaty to Emarine’s face. It was hard as flint. “It’s time you come,” she said, briefly. “Your mother just ordered my mother out o’ doors. Whose house is this?” He was silent. “Say, Orville Parmer! whose house is this?” “Oh, Emarine!” “Don’t you ‘oh, Emarine’ me! You answer up!” “Oh, Emarine, don’t let’s quar’l. We’ve only b’en married a month. Let them quar’l, if they want—” “You answer up. Whose house is this?” “It’s mine,” he said in his throat. “You’rn! Your mother calls it her’n.” “Well, it is,” he said, with a desperation that rendered the situation tragic. “Oh, Emarine, what’s mine’s her’n. Father left it to me, but o’ course he knew it ’u’d be her’n, too. She likes to call it her’n.”