“He couldn’t use to bear to have me go a visitin’, either. He said talkin’ with neighborin’ wimmen’ was wearin’ too, and to have to come home and git supper for him after dark; he said he couldn’t bear to see me do it. He never was no hand to pick up a supper, and I always had to come home and git his supper by candle light—meat vittles; he always had to have jest what he wanted to eat, or it made him sick, he was one of that kind—give him the palsy. He never _had_ the palsy, but he always said that all that kep’ him from it, was havin’ jest what he wanted to eat, jest at the time he wanted it; and so he would lay down on the lounge while I got his supper ready. I’d have to begin at the very beginning, for he never was one of the men that could hang over the tea-kettle, or git up potatoes, or anything of that sort; and I’d most always have to build up the fire, for he thought it wasn’t a man’s place to do such things. He was a dretful hand to want everybody to keep their place; that was one reason why he felt so strong about wimmen’s votin’. He had a deep, sound mind, my Doodle did. But, as I said, he’d lay on the lounge and worry so about its bein’ too much for me; that, ruther than make him feel so bad, I give up visitin’ almost entirely. But he never worried about that, so much as he did about votin’; it seemed as if the thought of that almost killed him. He said that with my health, (I didn’t enjoy very good health then) I wouldn’t stand it a year; I would wilt right down under it. Oh! how much that man did think of me! [Illustration: PRETTY HANDS AND EYES.] “When I would be a workin’ in the garden, (I took all the care of the garden,) or when I would be a pickin’ up chips—we was kinder bothered for wood—he’d set out on the back piazza with his paper, the Evenin’ Grippher—awful strong paper against wimmen’s rights—and as I would be a bringin’ my chips in, (we had a old bushel basket that I used,) he would look up from his paper and say to me,—‘Oh, them pretty little hands, how cunning they look, a quirling round the basket handles; and oh, them pretty little eyes; what should I do if it wasn’t for my Dolly? And how should I feel if them pretty little eyes was a lookin’ at the pole?’ Says he, ‘It would kill me Dolly; it would use me right up.’ [Illustration: HELPING CHURN.]