But Miss Dyer, with an unnecessary display of effort, was hitching her
chair into the darkest corner of the room, the rockers hopelessly
snarling her yarn at every move.

"I'm sure I wouldn't keep the sun off'n anybody," she said, tearfully.
"It never come into my head to take it up, an' I don't claim no share
of anything. I guess, if the truth was known, 'twould be seen I'd been
used to a house lookin' south, an' the fore-room winders all of a glare
o' light, day in an' day out, an' Madeira vines climbin' over 'em, an'
a trellis by the front door; but that's all past an' gone, past an'
gone! I never was one to take more 'n belonged to me; an' I don't care
who says it, I never shall be. An' I'd hold to that, if 'twas the last
word I had to speak!"

This negative sort of retort had an enfeebling effect upon Mrs. Blair.

"My land!" she exclaimed, helplessly. "Talk about my tongue! Vinegar's
nothin' to cold molasses, if you've got to plough through it."

The other sighed, and leaned her head upon her hand in an attitude of
extreme dejection. Mrs. Blair eyed her with the exasperation of one
whose just challenge has been refused; she marched back and forth
through the room, now smoothing a fold of the counterpane, with vicious
care, and again pulling the braided rug to one side or the other, the
while she sought new fuel for her rage. Without, the sun was lighting
snowy knoll and hollow, and printing the fine-etched tracery of the
trees against a crystal sky. The road was not usually much frequented
in winter time, but just now it had been worn by the week's sledding
into a shining track, and several sleighs went jingling up and down.