tone.

Cephas's black eyes flashed at her. "I wish you would attend to your
own work, an' leave me alone," said he. But at last he succeeded in
moving the rolling-pin over the dough as he had seen his wife move
it.

"He ain't greasin' the pie-plates," said Sarah, as Cephas brought a
piece of dough with a dexterous jerk over a plate; "there ain't much
animal in the little mite of lard it takes to grease a plate."

Cephas spread handfuls of sorrel leaves over the dough; then he
brought the molasses-jug from the pantry, raised it, and poured
molasses over the sorrel with an imperturbable air.

Sarah watched him; then she turned to Charlotte. "To think of eatin'
it!" she groaned, quite openly; "it looks like 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