“You can’t say nothin’ without ownin’ it ain’t right, father.  An’ there’s another thing—­I ain’t complained; I’ve got along forty year, an’ I s’pose I should forty more, if it wa’n’t for that—­if we don’t have another house.  Nanny she can’t live with us after she’s married.  She’ll have to go somewheres else to live away from us, an’ it don’t seem as if I could have it so, noways, father.  She wa’n’t ever strong.  She’s got considerable color, but there wa’n’t never any backbone to her.  I’ve always took the heft of everything off her, an’ she ain’t fit to keep house an’ do everything herself.  She’ll be all worn out inside of a year.  Think of her doin’ all the washin’ an’ ironin’ an’ bakin’ with them soft white hands an’ arms, an’ sweepin’!  I can’t have it so, noways, father.”

Mrs. Penn’s face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed.  She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she had ranged from severity to pathos; but her opponent employed that obstinate silence which makes eloquence futile with mocking echoes.  Adoniram arose clumsily.

“Father, ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” said Mrs. Penn.

“I’ve got to go off after that load of gravel.  I can’t stan’ here talkin’ all day.”

“Father, won’t you think it over, an’ have a house built there instead of a barn?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

Adoniram shuffled out.  Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom.  When she came out, her eyes were red.  She had a roll of unbleached cotton cloth.  She spread it out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for her husband.  The men over in the field had a team to help them this afternoon; she could hear their halloos.  She had a scanty pattern for the shirts; she had to plan and piece the sleeves.

Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her needlework.  She had taken down her curl-papers, and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately fine and clear as porcelain.  Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red flamed all over her face and neck.  “Mother,” said she.

“What say?”

“I’ve been thinking—­I don’t see how we’re goin’ to have any—­ wedding in this room.  I’d be ashamed to have his folks come if we didn’t have anybody else.”

“Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can put it on.  I guess you won’t have no call to be ashamed of your belongin’s.”

“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said Nanny, with gentle pettishness.  “Why, mother, what makes you look so?”

Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious expression.  She turned again to her work, and spread out a pattern carefully on the cloth.  “Nothin’,” said she.

Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-wheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman charioteer.  Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder.