The women, the happy ones, drove down upon Mary-Clare from another quarter. The happy women are always first to lay down the laws for the unhappy ones. Not knowing, they are irresponsible. The men of the Forest did some laughing and side talking, but on the whole they denounced Mary-Clare because she was a menace to the Established Code. "God!" said the speaker of the Cosey Bar, "what's coming to the world, anyhow? There ain't any rest and peace nowheres, and when it comes to women taking to naming terms, I say it's time for us to stand for our rights fierce." Maclin had delicately and indirectly set forth Mary-Clare's "terms" and the Forest was staggered. But Mary-Clare either did not hear, or the turmoil was so insistent that she had become used to it. She suddenly displayed an energy that made her former activities seem tame. She brought from the attic an old loom and got Aunt Polly to teach her to weave; she presently designed quaint patterns and delighted in her work. She invited several children, neglected little souls, to come to the yellow house and she taught them with Noreen. She resorted largely to the method the old doctor had used with her. Adapting, as she saw possible, her knowledge to her little group, she gave generously but held her peace. Northrup often had a hearty laugh after attending one of the "school" sessions. "It's like tossing all kinds of feed to a flock of birds," he told Aunt Polly, "and letting the little devils pick as they can." "I reckon they pick only as much as their little stomachs can hold," Aunt Polly replied, "and it makes _me_ smile to notice how folks as ain't above saying lies about Mary-Clare can trust their children to her teaching." "Oh! well, lies are soon killed," Northrup returned, but his smile vanished. Mary-Clare was often troubled by Larry's persistence at the Point. She could not account for it, but she did not alter her own way of life. She went, occasionally, to the desolate Point; she rarely saw Larry, but if she did, she greeted him pleasantly. It was amazing to find how naturally she could do this. Indeed the whole situation was at the snapping point. "I do say," Twombley confided to Peneluna, "it don't seem nater for a woman not to grieve and fuss at such goings on." Peneluna tossed her head and sneezed. "I ain't ever understood," she broke in, "why a woman should fuss and break herself on account of a man doing what he oughtn't ter do. Let _him_ do the fussing and breaking." "She might try and save him." Twombley, like all the male Forest, was stirred at what he could not understand. "Women have got their hands full of other things"--Peneluna sneezed again as if the dust of ages was stifling her--"and I do say that after a woman does save a man, she's often too worn out to enjoy her savings."