"You're always off in the mornings when there's work to be done,"
replied Abel, "but for heaven's sake, bring home a string of hares to
put ma into a better humour. She whets her tongue on me and I'll be
hanged if it's right."

"She never used to do it till you went over to Mr. Mullen's church and
fell in love with Molly Merryweather. Great Scott, I'm glad I don't
stand in either of your shoes when it comes to that. Life's too short to
pay for your religion or your sweetheart every day you live."

"It would have been the same anyway--she's put out with me about
nothing. I had a right to go to Old Church if I wanted to, and what on
earth has she got against Mr. Mullen anyway, except that he couldn't
recite the first chapter in Chronicles? What kind of religion does that
take I'd like to know?"

The meal poured softly out of the valve into the trough beneath, and
lifting a wooden scoop he bent over and scattered the pile in the
centre. A white dust had settled on his hair and clothes, and this
accentuated the glow in his face and gave to his whole appearance a
picturesque and slightly theatrical cast.

"If it hadn't been Molly, it would have been some one else," he added
impulsively. "Ma would be sure to hate any woman she thought I'd fallen
in love with. It's born in her to be contrary just as it is in that
hopvine out yonder that you can't train up straight."

"All the same, if I were going through fire and water for a girl, I'd be
pretty sure to choose one that would make it worth my while at the end.