“That’s a fac’.” Teck joined the laudations, their ebullition of enthusiasm proving infectious. “Eli’s a smart man, an’ a good man, too.” “So good ter us chillen!” cried the elder girl, her eyes alight,—“me an’ Is’bel; ain’t he, Is’bel?” “Laws-a-massy, yes!” Isabel once more seemed to swiftly take her oath upon it. “Why, ef ennything goes wrong thar at home,—the cow gits inter the corn, or the gate swags off’n the henges,—an’ dad gits ter ragin’ ’bout’n it, they hev jes’ got ter say, ‘’Twas Is’bel an’ Marcelly lef’ the bars down,’ or ‘The gals war a-swingin’ on the gate.’ An’ like ez not we hedn’t been a-nigh thar. An’ dad, he jes’ cools down ez quick. ‘’Twar them leetle darters, war it? Waal,’” imitating Strobe’s slow bovine glance, “‘’tain’t goin’ ter ’sturb _me_!’ But ef it hed been ennybody else, though!” The elder sister shook her head in a way that promised amplest retribution, and laughed again. “Yer name’s Marcelly, air it?” Teck Jepson said ponderingly. “Done fund that out, hev ye?” she exclaimed. Then, with a swift transition back to the paternal perfections, she continued, “Dad’s a tremenjious scholar,—kin read an’ write s’prisin’. Dad’s been ter school, I tell ye, an’ what he larnt thar warn’t how ter ketch grasshoppers. Dad’s the bes’ shot in Brumsaidge Cove. Nobody kin shoot agin dad, though, bein’ constable,”—her voice fell with the sedateness of her logic,—“he ain’t gin over ter shootin’-matches, like he war. An’ dad kin arrest _ennybody_,” she declared sweepingly, “bein’ constable. The sher’ff ain’t got no mo’ power over folks, sca’cely.” “An’ dad ’lows the sher’ff be made out’n dough, besides,” said Isabel suddenly. “Dad say a biscuit hev got ez much backbone ez that thar sher’ff.” Her sister flashed a warning glance at her. Then Marcella’s own bright face fell. “I reckon that’s one reason he hev got a better chance o’ bein’ ’lected agin than dad hev. Some folks ’low ez dad hev set too much store by the law,” she observed, lowering her voice, and allured into a confidential mood by Jepson’s apparent appreciation of “dad.” “Some say ez dad hev whetted the law’s scythe powerful sharp, whilst his own hev been lef’ ter rust. He hev been mo’ tuk up with seein’ arter the law, than gittin’ ’lected agin, an’—an’”—she hesitated—“folks air agin him, an’ bound ter git him beat.” Isabel fixed an eager electioneering gaze on Jepson’s face. “Do you-uns vote down in Brumsaidge?” she interrogated him. “I kin vote fur him—ef I wants ter,” he said, a trifle waggishly. “But I ain’t a-goin’ ter let ye buy my vote, so ye needn’t try.” “I dunno ez I be a-tradin’,” said Isabel shortly. “Is’bel, hush up!” exclaimed the repressive elder sister, glancing apprehensively at Jepson to note the effect of the child’s curt speech. But as he lounged upon the ledges of the rock, his head supported on his hand, he was looking with languid good-humor at Isabel, and had evidently taken no offense.