“Does she want a horse and carriage?”

“I shouldn’t think of it if I didn’t s’pose she did.”

“What made me ask,” said Henry, “was, I’d never heard her speak of it, and I knew she had money enough for anything if she did want it.”

“Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on her?”

Henry looked reproachfully at his wife.  “I didn’t quite deserve that from you, Sylvia,” he said, slowly.

Sylvia looked at him a moment.  Her face worked.  Then she glanced around to be sure nobody saw, and leaned over and touched the shoulder of Henry’s mohair coat with a little, skinny hand.  “Henry,” she said, pitifully.

“What, Sylvia?”

“You know I didn’t mean anything.  You’ve always been generous about money matters.  We ’ain’t never had ill feeling about such a thing as that.  I shouldn’t have spoke that way if I hadn’t been all wrought up, and—­” Suddenly Sylvia thrust her hand under her white apron and swept it up to her face.  She shook convulsively.

“Now, Sylvia, of course you didn’t mean a blessed thing.  I’ve known you were all wrought up for a long time, but I haven’t known what about.  Don’t take on so, Sylvia.”

A little, hysterical sob came from Sylvia under the apron.  Her scissors fell from her lap and struck the stone slab on which Henry was sitting.  He picked them up.  “Here are your scissors, Sylvia,” said he.  “Now don’t take on so.  What is it about?  What have you got on your mind?  Don’t you think it would do you good to tell me?”

“I wish,” sobbed Sylvia, “that Abrahama White had left her property where it belonged.  I wish we’d never had a cent of it.  She didn’t do right, and she laid the burden of her wrong-doing onto us when she left us the property.”

“Is that what’s troubling you, Sylvia?” said Henry, slowly.  “If that’s all,” he continued, “why—­”

But Sylvia interrupted him.  She swept the apron from her face and showed it grimly set.  There was no trace of tears.  “That ain’t troubling me,” said she.  “Nothing’s troubling me.  I’m kind of nervous, that’s all, and I hate to set still and see foolishness.  I don’t often give way, and I ’ain’t nothing to give way for.  I’m jest all wrought up.  I guess there’s going to be a thunder-tempest.  I’ve felt jest like it all day.  I wish you’d go out in the garden and pick a mess of green corn for supper.  If you’re a mind to you can husk it, and get that middling-sized kettle out from under the sink and put the water on to boil.  I suppose they’ll be home before long now.  They ain’t quite got to going without their victuals.”