“Well,” said Mrs. Warren, after a long inspection, “P’raps it’ll sound ridiculous to yeh, but yeh don’t look unlike what I did when I was your age. The farm ain’t had time to tell on yeh yit. But it will! It made me the skeercrow that you see; it’ll do the same for you. When I was a girl, I was a Thayer, the best fam’ly in Norton, Massachusetts. We held our heads high, I kin tell yeh. Why, when I brought my side-saddle here, stitched with silk, ’twas the fust one they’d ever seen in these parts. But I married beneath me, an’ I come up here into York State to live, on this very farm. With us, farmin’ don’t mean a livin’ death. P’raps we don’t hev sech fine big barns ez yeh build here, but our houses are better. We don’t git such good crops, but we pay more heed to education and godly livin’. It’s th’ diff’rence ’twixt folks who b’lieve there’s somethin’ else in life b’sides eatin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ makin’ money, an’ folks that don’t. Well, I left a good home, an’ I come here, an’ here I am. Look at me! Look at Lemuel Fairchild’s wife, Cicely--she was a relation of yours, wasn’t she?--see how the farm made an ole woman o’ her, an’ broke her down, an’ killed her! You’re young, an’ you’re good lookin’ yit, but it’ll break yeh, sure’s yer born. Husban’s on these farms ain’t what they air in the cities, nor even in the country in New England. I’m told your husban’ don’t treat you right.” “Don’t let us talk about that--please!” said Isabel: she stole a swift, momentary glance toward Seth as she spoke. The keen eyes in the recess followed this look. “Well, no,” the husky, whispering voice went on, “p’raps it ain’t none o’ my business. But tell me about this young man here--yer husband’s brother. I want to know about him.” “What about him?” asked Isabel slowly, after a pause. “Why, is he a likely man? Air his habits good? Could he take this girl o’ mine--an’ she’s a good girl, Annie is--could he take her to Tecumsy, an’ make a fit home fer her? An’ _would_ he do it? Would he make her a good husban’--ez good ez she desarves? I ask you, ’cause you know him. I leave it to you--would you yerself marry him ef yeh was free, an’ feel safe about him? Come, now, tell me that!” Isabel hesitated so long that the old woman, seemingly wandering a little after her long, laborious concentration of thought, broke in again: “Oh, I know ’em! I know ’em! Of all the Fair-childses, there never was one decent one. They stole my daughter, an’ let her die ’mongst strangers, an’ they made a broken ole woman o’ me, an’ they slaved Cicely’s life out o’ her, an’ now they want my Annie----” “No,” said Isabel here, speaking softly, and putting her hand on the wasted arm which lay above the coverlet. “I think you wrong Seth. Whatever the rest may have done, I think he will be a good husband to Annie. I am _sure_ he will.”