Charlotte never knew quite how it began, but her father suddenly
flung out a dangerous topic like a long-argued bone of contention,
and he and Barnabas were upon it. Barnabas was a Democrat, and Cephas
was a Whig, and neither ever forgot it of the other. None of the
women fairly understood the point at issue; it was as if they drew
back their feminine skirts and listened amazed and trembling to this
male hubbub over something outside their province. Charlotte grew
paler and paler. She looked piteously at her mother.

"Now, father, don't," Sarah ventured once or twice, but it was like a
sparrow piping against the north wind.

Charlotte laid her hand on her lover's arm and kept it there, but he
did not seem to heed her. "Don't," she said; "don't, Barnabas. I
think there's going to be a frost to-night; don't you?" But nobody
heard her. Sylvia Crane, in the background, clutched the arms of her
rocking-chair with her thin hands.

Suddenly both men began hurling insulting epithets at each other.
Cephas sprang up, waving his right arm fiercely, and Barnabas shook
off Charlotte's hand and was on his feet.

"Get out of here!" shouted Cephas, in a hoarse voice--"get out of
here! Get out of this house, an' don't you ever darse darken these
doors again while the Lord Almighty reigns!" The old man was almost
inarticulate; he waved his arms, wagged his head, and stamped; he
looked like a white blur with rage.

"I never will, by the Lord Almighty!" returned Barnabas, in an awful