"I never promised. Be just, now, Renny! I never promised, did I?"
"No," said Renny. "He didn't promise. I told him to cut it out. I said there'd be trouble."
"Trouble—trouble—trouble," moaned Grandmother, "I've had too much trouble. If I didn't keep my appetite, I'd be dead. Give me more cake, someone. No, not that kind—devil's cake. I want devil's cake!" She took the cake that Ernest brought her, bit off a large piece, and snortled through it: "I hit the young whelp a good crack on the head!"
"Yes, Mamma," said Ernest. Then he inquired, patiently, "Must you take such large bites?"
"I drew the blood!" she cried, ignoring his question, and taking a still larger bite. "I made the lad smart for his folly."
"You ought to be ashamed, Gran," said Eden, and the family began to argue noisily as to whether she had done well or ill.
Renny stood looking from one excited face to another, feeling irritated by their noise, their ineffectuality, yet, in spite of all, bathed in an immense satisfaction. This was his family. His tribe. He was head of his family. Chieftain of his tribe. He took a very primitive, direct, and simple pleasure in lording it over them, caring for them, being badgered, harried, and importuned by them. They were all of them dependent on him except Gran, and she was dependent, too, for she would have died away from Jalna. And beside the fact that he provided for them, he had the inherent quality of the chieftain. They expected him to lay down the law; they harried him till he did. He turned his lean red face from one to the other of them now, and prepared to lay down the law.
The heat of the room was stifling; the fire was scarcely
