fore her husband, her placid face all knitted with
perplexed remonstrance. "Why, I can't, Cephas," she said. "Pies can't
be made that way."

"I know they can," said Cephas.

"They can't, Cephas. There ain't no use tryin'. It would jest be a
waste of the flour."

"Why can't they, I'd like to know?"

"Folks don't ever make pies without lard, Cephas."

"Why don't they?"

"Why, they wouldn't be nothin' more than-- You couldn't eat them
nohow if they was made so, Cephas. I dunno how the sorrel pies would
work. I never heard of anybody makin' sorrel pies. Mebbe the Injuns
did; but I dunno as they ever made pies, anyway. Mebbe the sorrel, if
it had some molasses on it for juice, wouldn't taste very bad; I
dunno; but anyway, if the sorrel did work, the other wouldn't. I
can't make pies fit to eat without any lard or any butter or anything
any way in the world, Cephas."

"I know you can make 'em without," said Cephas, and his black eyes
looked like flint. Mrs. Barnard appealed to her daughter.

"Charlotte," said she, "you tell your father that pies can't be made
fit to eat without I put somethin' in 'em for short'nin'."

"No, they can't, father," said Charlotte.

"He wants me to make sorrel pies, Charlotte," Mrs. Barnard went on,
in an injured and appealing tone which she seldom used against
Cephas. "He's been out in the field, an' picked all that sorrel," and
she pointed to a pan heaped up with little green leaves on the table,
"an' I tell him I dunno how that will work, but he wants me to make
the pie-crust without a mite of short'nin', an' I can't do that
nohow, can I?"

"I don't see how you can," assented Charlotte, coldly.

Cephas went with a sudden stride towards the pantry. "I'll make 'em
myself, then," he cried.

Mrs. Barnard gasped, and looked piteously at her daughter. "What you
goin' to do, Cephas?" she asked, feebly.

Cephas was in the pantry rattling the dishes with a fierce din. "I'm
a-goin' to make them sorrel pies myself," he shouted out, "if none of
you women folks know enough to."

"Oh, Cephas, you can't!"

Cephas came out, carrying the mixing-board and rolling-pin like a
shield and a club; he clapped them heavily on to the table.

Mrs. Barnard stood staring aghast at him; Charlotte sat down, took
some lace edging from her pocket, and began knitting on it. She
looked hard and indifferent.

"Oh, Charlotte, ain't it dreadful?" her mother whispered, when Cephas
went into the pantry again.