This unaccustomed recalcitrancy seemed to take Abner aback. He moved a few steps forward, so that he became visible from where I stood, then halted again and turned, his shoulders rounded, his hands clasped behind his back. I could see him regarding M'rye from under his broad hat-brim with a gaze at once dubious and severe. “I ain't much in the habit o' hearin' you talk this way to me, mother,” he said at last, with grave depth of tones and significant deliberation. “Well, I can't help it, Abner!” rejoined M'rye, bursting forth in vehement utterance, all the more excited from the necessity she felt of keeping it out of hearing of the unwelcome guest. “I don't want to do anything to aggravate you, or go contrary to your notions, but with even the willin'est pack-horse there is such a thing as pilin' it on too thick. I can stan' bein' burnt out o' house 'n' home, an' seein' pretty nigh every rag an' stick I had in the world go kitin' up the chimney, an' campin' out here in a barn—My Glory, yes!—an' as much more on top o' that, but, I tell you flat-footed, I can't stomach Jee Hagadorn, an' I _won't_!” Abner continued to contemplate the revolted M'rye with displeased amazement written all over his face. Once or twice I thought he was going to speak, but nothing came of it. He only looked and looked, as if he had the greatest difficulty in crediting what he saw. Finally, with a deep-chested sigh, he turned again. “I s'pose this is still more or less of a free country,” he said. “If you're sot on it, I can't hender you,” and he began walking once more toward me. M'rye followed him out and put a hand on his arm. “Don't go off like that, Abner!” she adjured him. “You _know_ there ain't nothin' in this whole wide world I wouldn't do to please you—if I _could_! But this thing jest goes ag'in' my grain. It's the way folks are made. It's your nater to be forgivin' an' do good to them that despitefully use you.” “No, it ain't!” declared Abner, vigorously. “No, sirree! ‘Hold fast’ is my nater. I stan' out ag'in' my enemies till the last cow comes home. But when they come wadin' in through the snow, with their feet soppin' wet, an' coughin' fit to turn themselves inside out, an' their daughter is there, an' you've sort o' made it up with her, an' we're all campin' out in a barn, don't you see—” “No, I can't see it,” replied M'rye, regretful but firm. “They always said we Ramswells had Injun blood in us somewhere. An' when I get an Injun streak on me, right down in the marrow o' my bones, why, you musn't blame me—or feel hard if—if I—” “No-o,” said Abner, with reluctant conviction, “I s'pose not. I dare say you're actin' accordin' to your lights. An' besides, he'll be goin' the first thing after breakfast.” “An' you ain't mad, Abner?” pleaded M'rye, almost tremulously, as if frightened at the dimensions of the victory she had won.