“Nor with nuthin’ else,” said the cynical Peter Bryce, speaking from the fullness of his own experience, but with an abstract application to the whole sex that gave Clem Sanders no offense for his mother’s sake, and left him at liberty to suffer sundry pangs of regret that beset him at the recollection of his disclosure to Marcella. He threw himself down on the hay, close to the wall, his hat pulled far over his brooding eyes, his elbow upon the elastic masses, and resting his head in his hand. The cat, in a crevice between the unchinked logs, looked around at him with lustrous, recognizing eyes, and, kitten-like, she put out a white, velvety paw with a feint of touching his sunburned hand, falling short by an inch. Then she once more gazed calmly out, drawing her tail about her, and seeming always to rise slightly, as she purringly closed and unclosed the nails of her fore-paws. Her shadow on the floor, above that of the prostrate man, was like a crouching tiger, ready to spring. “Can’t trest wimmen with nuthin’,” asseverated Peter Bryce loudly, for the cynic is rarely ready to enjoy alone his discoveries in human nature. He calls in all his world to help him make merry over the distortions of the poor, warped thing before it can get itself away. “Waal, now, the Lord made ’em,” expostulated an elderly, grizzled fellow. It was not altogether piety which animated him. His threatening, lowering mien bespoke a personal interest. He had seven daughters, when he would have infinitely preferred seven sons. He had, in each instance, absolved himself from all obligation to feel any special affection for these young people, who persisted in being so great a shock to his prejudices; he had sought to steel himself in indifference, and in his judgment that each was an affliction and a dead weight. But poor human nature is weak at best. His seven afflictions, all unabashed, proceeded to entwine themselves about his rude heartstrings as valiantly as could any seven sons. When he became conscious of this, he applied such simple philosophy as his untutored brain could evolve to devising excuses for them, as it were; and thence he advanced to insistence upon their equality — nay, superiority to any seven sons that could be mustered in Broomsedge Cove. “The Lord made wimmen,” he solemnly declared. “By accident, I’m thinkin’,” said Bassett. “’Twarn’t no job ter be proud of,” echoed Dake. “War they made a-purpose so durned changeable?” demanded Bryce. “An’ so onreasonable?” said Bassett. “An’ sech a tongue onto all of ’em?” Dake suggested. “An’ no answer but ‘Bekase ’tis,’ ter every why?” said Peter Bryce.