frightened babby! Frightened of a feller like him! I’d be ashamed o’ myself!”
“Who’s frightened? Hold your row!”
“Why, you are; what else?”
“I ain’t!”
“You are!”
“I ain’t I You’d better not make me mad, or I’ll tell him before, just to spite you.”
“Spite me, you cat! What difference’ll it make to me? I’ll tell you what: I’ve a jolly good mind to tell him myself beforehand, and then we’ll see who’s spited.”
In the end Clem yielded, shrugging her shoulders defiantly.
“I’ll have a kitchen-knife near by when I tell him,” she remarked with decision. “If he lays a hand on me I’ll cut his face open, an’ chance it!”
Mrs. Peckover smiled with tender motherly deprecation of such extreme measures. But Clem repeated her threat, and there was something in her eyes which guaranteed the possibility of its fulfilment.
No personal acquaintance of either the
