The spirit of resistance was laid for the time in this poor Madelon Hautville, but it had yielded, after all, more to the will of her own reason than to Jim Otis's mother or the weariness of her own flesh.
When Mrs.Otis came down-stairs she was flushed with pleasant motherly victory.

"She's drunk all that hot cordial," she said to her son, "every drop of it, and I've tucked her into bed with the extra comfortables over her, an' she eat quite a good supper, an' I told her to go right to sleep, and I guess she will." "If she don't she'll be down sick," said Jim, sternly.

He sat by the fire, tuning his fiddle.
"She can't hear your fiddle so it'll keep her awake, can she ?" asked Mrs.Otis, anxiously.
"Of course she can't, up in the front chamber, with all the doors shut.

Wouldn't have touched it if she could." "Well, I don't s'pose she can.

Jim--" Jim twanged a string.