"I'll make him laugh real, if I can," Cassy rejoined. "I've made a lot
of people laugh in my time."

The old woman leaned suddenly over, and drew the red, ridiculous head to
her shoulder with a gasp of affection, and her eyes were full of tears.

"Cassy," she exclaimed, "Cassy, you make me cry." Then she turned and
hurried from the room.

Three hours later the problem was solved in the big sitting-room where
Cassy had first been received with her boy. Aunt Kate sat with her feet
on a hassock, rocking gently and watching and listening. Black Andy was
behind the great stove with his chair tilted back, carving the bowl of a
pipe; the old man sat rigid by the table, looking straight before him and
smacking his lips now and then as he was won't to do at meeting; while
Cassy, with her chin in her hands and elbows on her knees, gazed into the
fire and waited for the storm to break.

Her little flashes of humour at dinner had not brightened things,
and she had had an insane desire to turn cart-wheels round the room,
so implacable and highly strained was the attitude of the master of the
house, so unctuous was the grace and the thanksgiving before and after
the meal. Abel Baragar had stored up his anger and his righteous
antipathy for years, and this was the first chance he had had of visiting
his displeasure on the woman who had "ruined" George, and who had now
come to get "rights," which he was determined she should not have. He
had steeled himself against seeing any good in her whatever. Self-will,
self-pride, and self-righteousness were big in him, and so the supper had
ended in silence, and with a little attack of coughing on the part of
Cassy, which made her angry at herself. Then the boy had been put to