"Now just look at Bob tracking down Providence Road a-whistling like a
partridge in the wheat for Louisa Helen. They've got love's young
dream so bad they had oughter have sassaprilla gave for it," and the
poet cast a further glance at the widow, who only laughed and looked
indulgently down the road at the retreating form of the gawky young
Adonis.
"Hush up, Cal Rucker, and go begin chopping up fodder to feed with
come supper time," answered his wife, her usual attitude of brisk
generalship coming into her capable voice and eyes after their
softening under the strain of the varied emotions of the last half
hour in the store. "Let's me and you get mops and broom and begin on
a-cleaning up for Mr. Crabtree before his moving, Lou. I reckon you
want to go over his things before you marry him anyway, and I'll help
you. I found everything Cal Rucker had a disgrace, with Mr.
Satterwhite so neat, too." And not at all heeding the flame of
embarrassment that communicated itself from the face of the widow to
that of the sensitive Mr. Crabtree, Mrs. Rucker descended the steps of
the store, taking Mrs. Plunkett with her, for to Mrs. Rucker the state
of matrimony, though holy, was still an institution in the realm of
realism and to be treated with according frankness.
Meanwhile over in the barn at the Briars Uncle Tucker was at work
rooting up the foundations upon which had been built his lifetime of
lordship over his fields. In the middle of the floor was a great pile
of odds and ends of old harness, empty grease cans, broken
tools, and scraps of iron.
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