her back too, poor thing! in sound sleep; and so it befell that they
often quarrelled and wrangled, and that they were quarrelling and
wrangling this very night.

Who cares to know how it began? Who cares to hear how it went on,--the
stupid, aimless skirmish of bitter words, between two people who had
forgotten themselves? I believe it began with Elsley's being vexed
at her springing up two or three times, fancying that she heard the
children cry, while he wanted to be quiet, and sentimentalise over the
roaring of the wind outside. Then--she thought of nothing but those
children. Why did she not take a book and occupy her mind? To which
she had her pert, though just answer, about her mind having quite
enough to do to keep clothes on the children's backs, and so
forth,--let who list imagine the miserable little squabble;--till she
says,--"I know what has put you out so to-night; nothing but the news
of my sister's coming." He answers,--"That her sister is as little to
him as to any man; as welcome to come now as she has been to stay away
these three years."

"Ah, it's very well to say that; but you have been a different person
ever since that letter came." And so she torments him into an angry
self-justification (which she takes triumphantly as a confession) that
"it is very disagreeable to have his thoughts broken in on by one who
has no sympathy with him and his pursuits--and who" and at that point
he wisely stops short, for he was going to throw down a very ugly gage
of battle.

Thrown down or not, Lucia snatches at it.

"Ah, I understand; poor Valentia! You always hated her."