ike p'ison."

Charlotte made no response; she knitted as one of the Fates might
have spun. Sarah sank down on a chair, and looked away from Cephas
and his cookery, as if she were overcome, and quite done with all
remonstrance.

Never before had she shown so much opposition towards one of her
husband's hobbies, but this galloped so ruthlessly over her own
familiar fields that she had plucked up boldness to try to veer it
away.

Somebody passed the window swiftly, the door opened abruptly, and
Mrs. Deborah Thayer entered. "_Good_-mornin'," said she, and her
voice rang out like a herald's defiance.

Sarah Barnard arose, and went forward quickly. "Good-mornin'," she
responded, with nervous eagerness. "Good-mornin', Mis' Thayer. Come
in an' set down, won't you?"

"I 'ain't come to set down," responded Deborah's deep voice.

She moved, a stately high-hipped figure, her severe face almost
concealed in a scooping green barege hood, to the centre of the
floor, and stood there with a pose that might have answered for a
statue of Judgment. She turned her green-hooded head slowly towards
them all in turn. Sarah watched her and waited, her eyes dilated.
Cephas rolled out another pie, calmly. Charlotte knitted fast; her
face was very pale.

"I've come over here," said Deborah Thayer, "to find out what my son
has done."

There was not a sound, except the thud of Cephas's rolling-pin.

"Mr. Barnard!" said Deborah. Cephas did not seem to hear her.

"Mr. Barnard!" she said, again. There was that tone of command in her
voice which only a woman can accomplish. It was full of that maternal
supremacy which awakens the first instinct of obedience in man, and
has more weight than the voice of a general in battle. Cephas did not
turn his head, but he spoke. "What is it ye want?" he said, gruffly.

"I want to know what my son has done, an' I want you to tell me in so
many words. I ain't afraid to face it. What has my son done?"

Cephas grunted something inarticulate.

"What?" said Deborah. "I can't hear what you say. I want to know what
my son has done. I've heard how you turned him out of your house last
night, and I want to know what it was for. I want to know what he has
done. You're an old man, and a God-fearing one, if you have got your
own ideas about some things. Barnabas is young, and apt to be
headstrong. He ain't always been as mindful of obedience as he might
be. I've tried to do my best by him, but he don't always ca