''
``It must boil in time,'' protested Crefton, ignoring the
suggestions of foul influences. ``Perhaps the coal is
damp.''
``It won't boil in time for supper, nor for breakfast
tomorrow morning, not if you was to keep the fire agoing all
night for it,'' said Mrs. Spurfield. And it didn't. The
household subsisted on fried and baked dishes, and a
neighbour obligingly brewed tea and sent it across in a
moderately warm condition.
``I suppose you'll be leaving us now that things has
turned up uncomfortable,'' Mrs. Spurfield observed at
breakfast; ``there are folks as deserts one as soon as
trouble comes.''
Crefton hurriedly disclaimed any immediate change of
plans; he observed, however, to himself that the earlier
heartiness of manner had in a large measure deserted the
household. Suspicious looks, sulky silences, or sharp
speeches had become the order of the day. As for the old
mother, she sat about the kitchen or the garden all day,
murmuring threats and spells against Martha Pillamon. There
was something alike terrifying and piteous in the spectacle
of these frail old morsels of humanity consecrating their
last flickering energies to the task of making each other
wretched.
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