"Supper's been ready half an hour," his wife said, when he entered.
"The heifer run down the old road when I was a-drivin' of her home,
an' I had to chase her," Caleb returned, meekly, settling down in his
arm-chair at the table.
"I guess that heifer wouldn't cut up so every night if I had the
drivin' of her," remarked Deborah. She filled a plate with toast and
passed it over to Caleb.
Caleb set it before him, but he did not begin to eat. He looked at
Rebecca's empty place, then at his wife's face, long and pale and
full of stern rancor, behind the sugar-bowl and the cream-pitcher.
"Rebecca got home?" he ventured, with wary eyes upon her.
"Yes, she's got home."
Caleb winked, meekly. "Ain't she comin' to supper?"
"I dunno whether she is or not."
"Does she know it's ready?" Deborah vouchsafed no reply. She poured
out the tea.
Caleb grated his chair suddenly. "I'll jest speak to her," he
proclaimed, courageously.
"She knows it's ready. You set still," said Deborah. And Caleb drew
his chair close again, and loaded his knife with toast, bringing it
around to his mouth with a dexterous sidewise motion.
"She ain't sick, is she?" he said, presently, with a casual air.
"No, I guess she ain't sick."
"I s'pose she eat so many cherries she didn't want any supper," Caleb
said, chuckling anxiously. His wife made no reply.
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