Her parents had succumbed to it; her husband had died of it; her children had resigned themselves to it or rebelled against it according to the quality of their moral fibre.

All her life she had laboured to make people happy, and the result of this exalted determination was a cowed and resentful family.
"Yo' buckwheat cakes will be stone cold if you don't come along in, Abel," she called now from the kitchen.

"You've been lookin' kind of sallow these last days, so I've got a spoonful of molasses and sulphur laid right by yo' plate." "For heaven's sake, take it away," he retorted irritably.

"I don't need it." "I reckon I can tell by the look of you better than you can by the feelin'," rejoined Sarah grimly, "an' if you know what's good for you, you'll come and swallow it right down." "I'll be hanged if I do!" exclaimed Abel without moving, and his tone implied that the ceaseless nagging had got at last on his nerves.

He was a robust, well-built, red-brown young fellow, who smelt always of freshly ground meal, as though his body, from long usage, had grown to exhale the cleanly odour of the trade he followed.