A little later, when her
glance passed to the roof of the mill there was no perceptible change in
her expression; and she observed dispassionately that the shingles which
caught the drippings from the sycamore were beginning to rot. While she
stood there she was in the throes of one of the bitterest sorrows of
her life; yet there was no hint of it either in her quiet face or in the
rigid spareness of her figure. Her sons had resisted her at times, but
until to-day not one of them had rebelled openly against her authority
in the matter of marriage. Years ago, in the period of Abner's reaction
from a blighted romance, she had chosen, without compunction, a
mild-mannered, tame-spirited maiden for his wife. Without compunction,
when the wedding was over, she had proceeded, from the best possible
motives, to torment the tame-spirited maiden into her grave.
"He's layin' up misery for himself and for all concerned," she said
aloud, after a moment, "a girl like that with no name and precious
little religion--an idle, vain, silly hussy, with a cropped head!"
A small coloured servant, in a girl's pinafore and a boy's breeches,
came to the door, and whispered that the old people were demanding a
snack of bread and molasses.
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