"Well, I can't see what there is in an old wheel to attract a young gentleman like you, so!" exclaimed Miss Thusa, interposing her tall figure between it and the collegian. "I don't want Hercules, or any sort of man, to spin at my distaff, I can tell you. It's woman's work, and it's a shame for a man to interfere with it. No, no! it is better for you to ride about the country with your black horse and gold-colored fringes, turning the heads of silly girls and gaping children, than to meddle with an old woman and her wheel." "Why, Miss Thusa, what makes you so angry?" cried Louis, astonished at the excitement of her manner. "I never knew you impolite before." "I apologise for my own rudeness," said Clinton, with inexpressible grace and ease. "I was really interested in the subject, and forgot that I might be intrusive. I respect every lady's rights too much to infringe upon them." "I don't mean to be rude," replied Miss Thusa, giving her glasses a downward jerk, "but I've lived so much by myself, that I don't know any thing about the soft, palavering ways of the world. I say again, I don't want to be rude, and I'm not ashamed to ask pardon if I am so; but I know this fine young gentleman cares no more for me, nor my wheel, than the man in the moon, and I don't like to have any one try to pass off the show for the reality." She fixed her large, gray eye so steadfastly on Clinton, that his cheek flushed with the hue of resentful sensibility, and Louis thinking Miss Thusa in a singularly repulsive mood, thought it better to depart. "If it were not so late," said he, approaching the door, "I would ask you for one of your interesting legends, Miss Thusa, but by the long shadow of the well-sweep on the grass, the sun must be almost down. Why do you never come to see us now? My mother would give you a cordial welcome." "That's right. I love to hear you call her mother, Louis. She is worthy of the name. She is a lady, a noble hearted lady, that honored the family by coming into it; and they who wouldn't own her, disgrace themselves, not her. Go among the poor, _if_ you want to know her worth. Hear _them_ talk--but as for my stories, I never can tell them, if there is a scoffing tongue, and an unbelieving ear close by. I cannot feel my _gift_. I cannot glorify the Lord who gave it. When Helen comes, bring her to me, for I've something to tell her that I mustn't carry to my grave. The blind child, too, I should like to see her again. I would give one of my eyes now, to put sight into hers--both of them, I might say, for I shan't use them much longer." "Why, Miss Thusa, you are a _powerful_ woman yet," said Louis, measuring her erect and commanding figure, with an upward glance. "I shouldn't wonder if you lived to preside at all our funerals. I don't think you ever can grow weak and infirm." Miss Thusa shook her head, and slipped up the sleeve of her left arm, showing the shrunken flesh and shrivelled skin.