“I ain’t a goin’ to kiss ye,” she muttered.  “I hate yer kisses!  I hate ’em!”

“Ye’ll kiss him, jest the same!” ordered Lon.

Closer and closer Lem came toward the girl; then suddenly he sprang at her like a tiger, crushing the slim figure against his breast.  For a moment Flea was encircled by his left arm.  Then she turned fiercely to the ugly face so close to hers, and in another instant had bitten it through the cheek.  He dropped her with a yelling oath, and Flea sprang back, turning flashing eyes upon Lon.

“That’s how I kiss him afore I go to him,” she screamed, “and worser and worser after he takes me!”

Lon laughed wickedly.  He had not expected such a display of spirit.  “I guess ye’ll have to wait, Lem,” he said; “fer—­”

Flea did not hear the rest of the sentence; for she and Flukey were hurrying toward the hut.

Lem stood wiping the blood from his face.  “The cussed spit-cat!” he hissed.  “When I take her in hand—­”

“When ye take her in hand, Lem,” interrupted Lon darkly, “ye can do what ye like.  Break her spirit!  Break her neck, if ye want to!  I don’t care.”

* * * * *

The children found Granny Cronk with bent shoulders and palsied hands toiling over the supper.  About the withered neck hung a red handkerchief, and on top of the few gray whisps of hair rested a spotless cap.  She grunted as the children entered the room like a whirlwind and climbed the long ladder to the loft, where for some time the low voice of Flukey and the sobs of Flea could be heard in the kitchen below.

It was not until her son had entered and hung his cap upon the peg that the old woman ventured to speak.

“Be Flea in a tantrum, Lon?”

“Yep, ye bet she be!”

“Have ye been a beatin’ her?”

“Nope, I never teched her,” replied the squatter; “but I will beat her, if she don’t do what I tell her.  No matter how she kicks ag’in’ my notions, she has to do ’em, Granny!”

“Yep, I know that; but I asked ye what she was a blubberin’ about.”

“’Cause I says as how on Saturday she’s got to go and be Lem’s woman—­that’s what I says.”

“Lem’s woman!  Do ye mean that she’s got to go away?”

“Yep, with Lem Crabbe,” replied Cronk; “he’s to be her man on her next birthday.  I bet he brings the kid to his likin’!”

“Lem’s a bad man, Lon,” replied Mrs. Cronk, “and ye be one, too, if ye be my own son, and Flea’s your own flesh and blood, and I like her.  It would be a good thing if ye let her stay to hum while I be a livin’; and I mean what I say, and I’m yer mammy, and that’s the truth!”

“Mammy or no mammy,” answered Cronk sullenly, “Flea goes to Lem, and ye makes her a pork cake, which she can hog down at one gulp, for all I care—­the damn brat!  I say it, and Lem says it.  He’ll dry her tears after she’s left hum, I’m a guessin’!”