“Waal, wimmen hev ter holp men along with thar work wunst in a while,” said Mrs. Sayles patronizingly. “Ye’ll find that out, child, whenst ye git married.” “Ef I war married,” said Alethea, severely contemplating the possibility,—and Doaks felt a vague thrill of jealousy,—“I’d do his work ef he war ailin’ ennywise, but not ter leave him in the enjyement o’ bresh whiskey.” “Ye shet up, Lethe,” said Jacob, nettled. “Ye ain’t no kin ter me,—jes’ a step-sister,—an’ ye ain’t got no right ter jow at me. Ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout bresh whiskey. Ye dunno whar it’s made nor who makes it.” “Ef I did”—she began abruptly. He looked up at her with a sober dismay on his face. “Don’t go ter ’lowin’ ye’d gin the word ter the revenuers?” he said. Mrs. Sayles dropped her knitting in her lap. “Look-a-hyar, Lethe,” she exclaimed, “it’s ez much ez yer life’s wuth ter say them words!” “I ain’t said ’em,” declared Alethea. She looked vaguely away with absent eyes, disregarding Jacob’s growling defense of himself, which consisted in good measure of animadversions on people who faulted their elders and gals who couldn’t hold their tongues. Suddenly she stepped from the porch. “Whar be ye goin’, Lethe?” demanded Mrs. Sayles, ruthlessly interrupting Jacob’s monologue. “Ter hunt up that thar lam’,” replied Alethea calmly, as if nothing else had been under discussion. “I ain’t seen nuthin’ of it ter-day, an’ some o’ the chill’n—I b’lieve ’twar Joe—’lowed its dam war down yander nigh Boke’s spring yestiddy, actin’ sorter cur’ous, an’ I reckon suthin’ ’s happened ter it.”