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.