nohow, can I?"

"I don't see how you can," assented Charlotte, coldly.

Cephas went with a sudden stride towards the pantry. "I'll make 'em
myself, then," he cried.

Mrs. Barnard gasped, and looked piteously at her daughter. "What you
goin' to do, Cephas?" she asked, feebly.

Cephas was in the pantry rattling the dishes with a fierce din. "I'm
a-goin' to make them sorrel pies myself," he shouted out, "if none of
you women folks know enough to."

"Oh, Cephas, you can't!"

Cephas came out, carrying the mixing-board and rolling-pin like a
shield and a club; he clapped them heavily on to the table.

Mrs. Barnard stood staring aghast at him; Charlotte sat down, took
some lace edging from her pocket, and began knitting on it. She
looked hard and indifferent.

"Oh, Charlotte, ain't it dreadful?" her mother whispered, when Cephas
went into the pantry again.

"I don't care if he makes pies out of burrs," returned Charlotte,
audibly, but her voice was quite even.

"I don't b'lieve but what sorrel would do some better than burrs,"