An' as for William, he's never come home nor wrote a line since he joined the Thirty-Second; an' it's little he cares for his home or his father.

I reckoned, back along, 'Lizabeth, as you an' he might come to an understandin'." "William's naught to me." "Look here!" cried the old man sharply; "he treated you bad, did William." "Who says so ?" "Why, all the folks.

Lord bless the girl! do 'ee think folks use their eyes without usin' their tongues?
An' I wish it had come about, for you'd ha' kept en straight.

But he treated you bad, and he treated me bad, tho' he won't find no profit o' that.

You'm my sister's child, 'Lizabeth," he rambled on; "an' what house-room you've had you've fairly earned--not but what you was welcome: an' if I thought as there was harm done, I'd curse him 'pon my deathbed, I would." "You be quiet!" She turned from the window and cowed him with angry grey eyes.
Her figure was tall and meagre; her face that of a woman well over thirty--once comely, but worn over-much, and prematurely hardened.
The voice had hardened with it, perhaps.