“Well, she can’t turn my mother out o’ doors. I’m your wife an’ this is my house, if it’s you’rn. I guess it ain’t hardly big enough fer your mother an’ me, too. I reckon one o’ us had best git out. I don’t care much which, only I don’t knuckle-down to nobody. I won’t be set upon by nobody.” “Oh, Emarine!” There was terror in his face and voice. He huddled into a chair and covered his eyes with both hands. Mrs. Palmer, also, sat down, as if her limbs had suddenly refused to support her. Mrs. Endey ceased rocking and sat with folded hands, grimly awaiting developments. Emarine stood with the backs of her hands on her hips. She had washed the flour off after putting the biscuits in the oven, and the palms were pink and full of soft curves like rose leaves; her thumbs were turned out at right angles. Her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were like diamonds. “One o’ us’ll have to git out,” she said again. “It’s fer you to say which ’n, Orville Parmer. I’d just as soon. I won’t upbraid you, ’f you say me.” “Well, I won’t upbraid choo, if yuh say me,” spoke up his mother. Her face was gray. Her chin quivered, but her voice was firm. “Yuh speak up, Orville.” Orville groaned—“Oh, mother! Oh, Emarine!” His head sunk lower; his breast swelled with great sobs—the dry, tearing sobs that in a man are so terrible. “To think that you two women sh’u’d both love me, an’ then torcher me this way! Oh, God, what can I do er say?” Suddenly Emarine uttered a cry, and ran to him. She tore his hands from his face and cast herself upon his breast, and with her delicate arms locked tight about his throat, set her warm, throbbing lips upon his eyes, his brow, his mouth, in deep, compelling kisses. “I’m your wife! I’m your wife! I’m your wife!” she panted. “You promised ev’rything to get me to marry you! Can you turn me out now, an’ make me a laughin’-stawk fer the town? Can you give _me_ up? You love me, an’ I love you! Let me show you how I love you—” She felt his arms close around her convulsively. Then his mother arose and came to them, and laid her wrinkled, shaking hand on his shoulder. “My son,” she said, “let _me_ show yuh how _I_ love yuh. I’m your mother. I’ve worked fer yuh, an’ done fer yuh all your life, but the time’s come fer me to take a back seat. Its be’n hard—it’s be’n offul hard—an’ I guess I’ve be’n mean an’ hateful to Emarine—but it’s be’n hard. Yuh keep Emarine, an’ I’ll go. Yuh want her an’ I want choo to be happy. Don’t choo worry about me—I’ll git along all right. Yuh won’t have to decide—I’ll go of myself. That’s the way _mothers_ love, my son!” She walked steadily out of the kitchen; and though her head was shaking, it was carried high. PART III