Mrs. Strobe was gracious enough to refrain from controverting this proposition. As she sat in the chimney-corner, with her tiny feet perched upon the rung of the chair, she looked discerningly, and withal approvingly, at the stranger, while Jake Baintree continued his queer introductory discourse. Nevertheless, she wondered why they did not finish drinking their liquor and go, for the hour was wearing close to the dawn, and, wiry and sturdy as she was, she began to feel the effects of her vigil and excitement. Her gratitude, however, kept her awake, and curiosity had a stimulating influence. She wondered, too, how the ostracized Jake Baintree had so very capable a “doctor-man” at his disposal. “The _old_ doctors, they ’low they know everything in creation, but they _don’t_,” Baintree said, voicing a most mundane sentiment. Mrs. Strobe nodded her head in unabashed acquiescence, despite the destroyed powders, the futile “yerb tea,” and the subsequent delirium,—so transitory are the effects even of the lessons of experience, the best of all teachers though it be. Man may be defined as the animal who will not learn. “But folks hev ter find that out fur tharselves,” continued the wily Baintree, “so he hed nuthin’ ter do, sca’cely, down thar in Glaston. Folks ginerally ’low they don’t want a young doctor l’arnin’ on them.” “Yes, better take keer of yer lungs, an’ yer liver, an’ yer stomick. No gittin’ enny new ones,” Mrs. Strobe agreed unexpectedly. Jake Baintree seemed to lose his balance at this for a moment, then plunged on resolutely: “So hevin’ nuthin’ ter do thar, he kem up hyar ter see me.” Notwithstanding his incidental air, Mrs. Strobe began to perceive that he was definitely driving at something, and he was clever enough to detect this in her sharp eyes, as she fixed them with renewed wonderment upon him. He went directly to the point, with an air of great candor: “Fac’ is, Mis’ Strobe, he don’t want folks ginerally ter know he be hyarabouts. Nobody would hev knowed it, nohow, ef he hedn’t kem out ter do you-uns a favior. Clem Sanders would fairly brain us with that big sledge o’ his’n, ef he knew we’d been foolin’ with his forge. He’s a powerful survigrous man, an’ he wouldn’t think nuthin’ o’ hammerin’ us up on the anvil, an’ drawin’ us down fine. So him an’ me too would be obleeged ter ye you-uns”—he included Marcella and Isabel in his glance—“wouldn’t say nuthin’ ’bout seein’ him. It’s his bizness, an’ nobody else’s.”