“I don’t want ter please ’em,” said Marcella, with a curve of her delicate lips, and lifting her head to its habitual airy pose. “Kase ye feel so mighty sure ye air goin’ ter ’thout tryin’,” retorted the discerning grandmother. “Let somebody tell ye now ez ye air downright ugly, an’ ef they could make ye b’lieve it, ye’d a sight ruther hear ye hed los’ yer soul’s salvation!” She began to turn anew the papers in her hand. “‘Quit them yerb teas,’” she quoted with a cantankerous accent, as she fumbled with the tiny wrappers, mimicking the physician’s ill-judged scorn. She was letting the powders fly out in the wind. “’Gin these powders, one every hour.’ He lef’ his watch, sir, so ez ter tell the time o’ day; an’ it air in yander now, a-goin’ on like suthin’ live. ’Gin him these powders,’—I’ll gin him some yerb tea, an’ tell the doctor the powders done him a power o’ good, when he kems agin. Ye Watch,” she called out to the dog, who when a few flakes of the medicine fell upon the floor sprang up with an expectant hunger and a glistening greedy eye, as if he had not had a morsel of food for a week, “ef ye lap that up, it’ll tangle yer liver an’ gizzard up so ye’ll _never_ git ’em straight agin.” Completing the destruction of the powders, she shook the bottle, looking at it intently. “Mought be some use.” The seeming admission was as to the value of the glass vial, by no means the “lotium.” That afternoon she demonstrated her incontestable claim, however, to some knowledge of hygiene by a mandate that Marcella, and not Isabel, should go after the cows; and as the girl reluctantly left the invalid’s bedside, Mrs. Strobe followed her out with axioms and boasts, for she had grown exceedingly prideful and exalted anew in her own opinion since she had observed the methods of the physician. “Ye oughter git some air an’ light, Marcelly; ye look like the las’ o’ pea-time,—an’ old! some similar ter Noah’s grandmother, ef the good ’oman bed lasted this long. Ef ye keep on lookin’ like that, even Clem Sanders won’t admire ye; an’ I think he air the kind o’ boy ez hev got mighty little ’scrimination in gal-folks,—all of ’em pritty ter Clem, I’ll be bound. Ye go out an’ git them cows hyar. I don’t want Is’bel ter grow no taller till she makes out ter git a little wider. She looks now like she war a-travelin’ on stilts, bein’ so long-legged. Naw, Is’bel hed better set still, an’ try ter fatten. Our folks war always knowed ter be a set o’ well-favored wimmin, an’ I don’t want ye an’ Is’bel ter gin the lie ter that report. Ez ter the men o’ the fambly, they war ugly enough ter skeer the bars in the woods; but, honey, _they never_ knowed it, an’ ez they war so powerful pleased with thar own beauty, sech ez they hed, it holped ter keep ’em satisfied, leastwise ez satisfied ez they war able ter be. Ye go ’long, an’ see ef ye can’t find yer own looks somewhar out yander in the wind an’ ’mongst the rocks. I’ll be bound ye’ll kem up with ’em tangled in the briers.”