It was an odd thing that, however the sisters quarrelled, the minute Andrew tried to take sides with his wife and assail Eva in his turn, Fanny turned and defended her.  “I am not going to desert all the sister I have got in the world,” she said.  “If you want me to leave, say so, and I will go, but I shall never turn Eva out of doors.  I would rather go with her and work in the shop.”  Then the next moment the wrangle would recommence, and the harsh trebles of wrath would swell high.  Andrew could not appreciate this savageness of race loyalty in the face of anger and dissension, and his brain reeled with the apparent inconsistency of the thing.

“Sometimes I think they are both crazy,” he used to tell his mother, who sympathized with him after a covertly triumphant fashion.  She never said, “I told you so,” but the thought was evident on her face, and her son saw it there.

However, he said not a word against his wife, except by implication.  Though she and her sister were making his home unbearable, he still loved her, and, even if he did not, he had something of his mother’s pride.

However, at last, when Ellen was almost eight years old, matters came suddenly to a climax one evening in November.  The two sisters were having a fiercer dispute than usual.  Eva was taking her sister to task for cutting over a dress of hers for Ellen, Fanny claiming that she had given her permission to do so, and Eva denying it.  The child sat listening in her little chair with a look of dawning intelligence of wrath and wicked temper in her face, because she was herself in a manner the cause of the dissension.  Suddenly Andrew Brewster, with a fiery outburst of inconsequent masculine wrath with the whole situation, essayed to cut the Gordian knot.  He grabbed the little dress of bright woollen stuff, which lay partly made upon the table, and crammed it into the stove, and a reek of burning wool filled the room.  Then both women turned upon him with a combination of anger to which his wrath was wildfire.

Andrew caught up little Ellen, who was beginning to look scared, wrapped the first thing he could seize around her, and fairly fled across the yard to his mother’s.  Then he sat down and wept like a boy, and his pride left him at last.  “Oh, mother,” he sobbed, “if it were not for the child, I would go away, for my home is a hell!”

Mrs. Zelotes stood clasping little Ellen, who clung to her, trembling.  “Well, come over here with me,” she said, “you and Ellen.”

“Live here in the next house!” said Andrew.  “Do you suppose Fanny would have the child living under her very eyes in the next house?  No, there is no way out of the misery—­no way; but if it was not for the child, I would go!”

Andrew burst out in such wild sobs that his mother released Ellen and ran to him; and the child, trembling and crying with a curious softness, as of fear at being heard, ran out of the house and back to her home.  “Oh, mother,” she cried, breaking in upon the dialogue of anger which was still going on there with her little tremulous flute—­“oh, mother, father is crying!”