"
"Had to break out, didn't you? Have I said you wan't good?"
"Might as well say it as to act it."
"How am I actin' it?"
"By not lovin' me, that's how."
"Not lovin' you. Have you got any postal-kyard or tillygram to that
effeck? I ain't sent you no sich news. Look here, did you ever notice
that when a woman's daughter gits up about grown--when the young fellers
begin to cut scollops about her--did you ever notice that about that
time she begins to complain that her husband don't love her? Hah? Did
you?"
"Oh, it's no sich of a thing," she replied, slowly rocking. "You know
you don't love me as much as you did yo' fust wife."
For a time the old fellow gazed at her, saying nothing; and then came
slow, deep-rumbling words: "Margaret, air you jealous o' that po' little
grave down yander under the hill? You never seed her, the mother o' my
two sons that went with me to pour out their blood fur their country;
and when she hearn that they wan't a comin' back, she pined away and
died and was buried under the tree whar we seed her standin' jest befo'
we went down beyant the hill.
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