"I might hev
stayed with Aunt Marty. I wasn't hankerin' to come."
"Bring ye for?" repeated her father contemptuously; "I reckoned ye might
he o' some account here, whar wimmin folks is skeerce, in the way o'
helpin',--and mebbe gettin' yer married to some likely feller. Mighty
much chance o' that, with yer yaller face and skin and bones."
"Ye can't blame me for takin' arter you, dad," she said, with a shrill
laugh, but no other resentment of his brutality.
"Ye want somebody to take arter you--with a club," he retorted angrily.
"Ye hear! Wot's that ye're doin' now?"
She had risen and walked to the tail of the wagon. "Goin' to get out and
walk. I'm tired o' bein' jawed at."
She jumped into the road. The act was neither indignant nor vengeful;
the frequency of such scenes had blunted their sting. She was probably
"tired" of the quarrel, and ended it rudely. Her father, however, let
fly a Parthian arrow.
"Ye needn't think I'm goin' to wait for ye, ez I hev! Ye've got to keep
tetch with the team, or get left.
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