Margaret was noisy in all things, but to-day the usual vigor of movement was manifestly increased by ill humor. There was an ominous setting of a pair of firm lips, and all her face was in a frown. The knives and forks, when their turn came, seemed to increase her ire. She rattled and flung them about with such reckless disregard of consequences that there landed, presently, a lovely tricolored globe of foam in the centre of John’s arithmetic, over which he was at this moment gloomily bending. “Look here,” he said, half fiercely, half comically, “quit that, will you? This thing is dry enough, I know; but it will take more than soap suds to dampen it.” “Take your book out of my way, then. What do you s’pose _she_ would say to its being on the table and you bending double over it?” “She may say just exactly what she pleases. It will stay on the table until I get ready to take it off.” “O yes! you’re very brave until you hear her coming, and then you are as meek as Moses.” “Now I say, Mag, that’s mean in you, when you know well enough that all I’m after is to try to keep the peace.” “Peace! there isn’t enough of that article left in this house to make it worth while to try to save it. I’m sick to death of the whole thing.” And the knives bumped about against a plate in the dish-pan with such force that the plate rebelled and flew into three pieces in its rage. “There goes another dish!” exclaimed West, from the window corner where he was busily whittling; “that makes the seventeenth this week, doesn’t it? Mag, you are awful, and no mistake.” Then Margaret’s face flamed and her angry words burst their bounds: “I wish you would just mind your own business, Weston Moore! You think because you are eighteen months and seven days older than I, that you can order me around like a slave.” “Whew! bless my eyes! How you do blaze out on a fellow! Who thought of ordering you around? I should as soon think of ordering a cyclone. I was only moralizing on the sweet and amiable mood you were in, and the nice comfortable times we have in this house.” “Well, you may let my moods alone if you please; and my dishes too. I’ve a right to break them all if I choose, for all you. I’d rather blaze up in a rage, than be an everlasting tease and torment, like you.” “Father’ll have a word to say about the dishes, I fancy, my lady; you might now and then think of him: he isn’t made of gold, I s’pose you know, and dishes cost money.” “I do think of him a great deal oftener than you do, you great lazy, whittling, whistling boy! If it wasn’t for him I’d run away, and be rid of her and you, and all the other nuisances, dishes and all.” She paused in her clatter long enough to dash away two or three great tears which were plashing down her hot red cheeks.