“Ah, ’tis the age, not the man,” lamented grandfather, “’tis an age of small larnin’ an’ weak-kneed an’ mealy mouthed into the bargain.  Why, they’re actually afeared to handle hell-fire in the pulpit any longer, an’ the texts they spout are that tame an’ tasteless that ’tis like dosin’ you with flaxseed tea when you’re needin’ tar-water.  ’Twas different when I was young and in my vigour,” he went on eagerly, undisturbed by the fact that nobody paid the slightest attention to what he was saying, “for sech was the power and logic of Parson Claymore’s sermons that he could convict you of the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost even when you hadn’t committed it.  A mo’ blameless soul never lived than my father, yet I remember one Sunday when parson fixed his eye upon him an’ rolled out his stirrin’ text ‘Thou art the man,’ he was so taken by surprise an’ suddenness that he just nodded back at the pulpit ’an answered, ‘Yes, parson, I am, if you’ll excuse me.’”

“It’s a pity ain’t mo’ like Parson Claymore now,” remarked Sarah, who had stopped to listen to the concluding words of the anecdote.  “Thar ain’t vim enough in this generation of preachers to skeer a rabbit.”

Her profile, with its sparse wave of hair from the forehead, was repeated in grotesque exaggeration on the wall at her back.  The iron will in her lent a certain metallic hardness to her features, and her shadow resembled in outline the head on some ancient coin that had lain buried for centuries.  Intrenched behind an impregnable self-esteem, she had never conceded a point, never admitted a failure, never accepted a compromise.  “It ain’t no wonder that a new comer thinks he can knock you down an’ set on you for shootin’ a few birds,” she added, after a moment.

“He’ll find out I ain’t done with him yet,” growled Archie, and rising from his seat, he took down his gun and began polishing the barrel with an old yarn stocking of Sarah’s.

The long needle missed the hole at which Blossom had pointed it, and she looked up with a sullen droop to her mouth.

“I reckon Mr. Gay has just as good a right to his things as we have to ours,” she said.

“Right!  Who wants his right?” flared Archie, turning upon her.  “You’ll say next, I reckon, that he had a right to split my upper lip open if he wanted to.”

“From the way grandma carries on anybody would think that was what she wanted,” persisted Blossom, adhering stubbornly to the point, “she sounds as if she were mad because people ain’t everlastingly fighting.”

“You needn’t think I don’t see what you’re aimin’ at, Keren-happuch,” rejoined Sarah, who used this name only in moments of anger, “you’re tryin’ to make me think a grown man can’t do anything better than get up in the pulpit and mouth texts so soft that a babe couldn’t cut its teeth on ’em.  You’ve had notions in yo’ head about Orlando Mullen ever since he came here, an’ you ain’t fooled me about ’em.”