“This is the fourteenth er March, Jim,” said the old woman, impressively, changing her hand from his sleeve to his breast. “An’ on the fourteenth er March two years ergo ther war just sich er storm as this, an’ on the fifteenth er March _he_ war bro’t ’ere,” with a shake of her thumb toward the next room. “You mark my words, Jim Bright, ther devil’s a-callin’ for his own, and there’ll be trouble here afore mornin’.” Jim could not smile at the old woman--she was too impressive for that--and she looked too much in earnest as she went on with her work with that quiet, watchful look on her old face, that her words affected Jim in spite of himself. “Pshaw!” he said, shouldering his way through the wind to the barn, “the idea of my worrying so over an old woman’s whims!” But he could not help thinking of it, and it was almost with the hope that it would come true, for Jim was getting very tired of this state of affairs. Nothing could be done about it, however, so Jim shook off the nervous feeling as well as he could, and reëntered the house for supper. Little Clinton was ailing somewhat, and correspondingly peevish. When Jim went in, Norine was walking up and down the room with him in her arms, trying to quiet his cries. “Here,” said Jim, “let me take that fellow,” and he took the child from her arms, and noted the sigh of relief she gave. “My, Jim!” she said, “he is getting dreadfully heavy;” and she looked proudly at the child as he lay in her brother’s arms. “Why did you not ask me to take him?” demanded Clinton, somewhat roughly. “I was not very tired, dear,” replied Norine sweetly; while Jim muttered something about taking the child without being asked. “Here, I will take him now,” said Clinton, taking the little one from Jim’s arms. Jim gave up the child quietly, but with a look that said a great deal. Clinton walked back and forth across the room, trying in vain to quiet the child. “Let me take him,” pleaded Norine. “He wants to come to me.” “No; I will make the little rascal mind me!” said Clinton; and he shook him crossly. With her eyes flashing fire, and a bound that resembled the swoop of a bird, Norine snatched the child from his arms and retreated to the other end of the kitchen. “Put the child down!” ordered Clinton. Norine made no answer, only rocked the child to and fro on her breast. “Will you put him down?” commanded Clinton. “No, I will not!” returned Norine. “You are an unnatural parent to shake your child so, and you can not have him again.” “Norine, put him down,” commanded Clinton. “It is time he was taught to obey, and you _shall_ put him down.” “You shall not speak to my sister in that way!” said Jim, looking very erect as he stood with his arms folded over his breast.