“What's this?” she said, poking.

He stopped to look at her. She went to the lamp-light by the horse, and stood there bent over the new thing, while her hair was like bronze, her apron white and cheerful. Her fingers plucked busily at the paper. She dragged forth a little wringer, with clean indiarubber rollers. She examined it critically, not knowing quite how it worked.

She looked up at him. He stood a shadowy presence beyond the light.

“How does it go?” she asked.

“Why, it's for pulpin' turnips,” he replied.

She looked at him.

His voice disturbed her.

“Don't be silly. It's a little mangle,”