And now Mr. Snawdor, the
nominal head of the family, was acknowledging it to be true. She looked
about her in new and quick concern.
"I'm going to clean up in here, too," she said. "I don't keer whut mammy
says. It'll look better by night; you see if it don't."
"It ain't only that--" said Mr. Snawdor; then he pulled himself up and
looked at her appealingly. "You won't say nuthin' about this mornin',
will you, Nance?"
"Not if you gimme the pistol," said Nance.
When he was gone, she picked up the shining weapon and gingerly dropped
it out on the adjoining roof. Then her knees felt suddenly wobbly, and
she sat down. What if she had been a minute later and Mr. Snawdor had
pulled the trigger? She shivered as her quick imagination pictured the
scene. If Mr. Snawdor felt like that about it, there was but one thing to
do; to get things cleaned up and try to keep them so.
Feeling very important and responsible, she swept and straightened and
dusted, while her mind worked even faster than her nimble hands.
Standards are formed by comparisons, and so far Nance's opportunity for
instituting comparisons had been decidedly limited.
"We ain't pore white, no such a thing!" she kept saying to herself. "Our
house ain't no worser nor nobody else's. Mis' Smelts is just the same,
an' if Levinski's is cleaner, it smells a heap worse."
Dinner was over before Mrs. Snawdor returned. She came into the kitchen
greatly ruffled as to hair and temper from having been caught by the
hook left hanging over the banisters by William J.
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