Even his aching heart seemed to recognize her authority, and to obtrude itself with a sense of embarrassment into surroundings where all mental maladies were outlawed.

She was on her knees busily sorting a pile of sweet potatoes, which she suspected of having been frost-bitten; and by sheer force of character, she managed to convince the despairing lover that a frost-bitten potato was a more substantial fact than a broken heart.
"I declar' if the last one of 'em ain't specked! I knew 'twould be so when they was left out thar in the smoke-house that cold spell.

Abel, all those sweet potatoes you left out in the smoke-house have been nipped." "Well, I don't care a hang!" retorted Abel, as he unwrapped his muffler.
"If it isn't one thing, it's another.

You're enough to drive a sober man to drink." "If you don't care, I'd like to know who ought to," responded Sarah, whose principal weapon in an argument was the fact that she was always the injured person.

"It seems that 'twas all yo' fault since you put 'em thar." "You'd better give him some supper--he looks almost played out," observed Abner from a corner of the hearth, where he sat smoking with his head hanging on his chest.
Though she might harrow her son's soul, Sarah was incapable of denying him food, so rising from her knees, she unpinned her skirt, and brought him coffee and broiled herring from the stove where they had been keeping hot.
"Where's Archie ?" asked Abel, while she plied him with corn muffins.
"Courtin', I reckon, though he'd best be down yonder in the swamp settin' old hare traps.