The little old woman glared down upon the youthful partisans of “dad” with an elaborate show of displeasure. “Air Eli Strobe _yer_ chile or mine?” she sourly demanded of the damsels. This potent logic bereft them of all rejoinder. “I _hev_ ’lowed fur forty year an’ better ez he war _my_ chile,” Mrs. Strobe continued, sarcastically. “Mebbe though I hev been mistaken.” But while she folded her arms in a pose of important dudgeon, letting her knitting rest idly on her lap, she glanced at Teck Jepson with a sort of internal chuckle, as if to call his attention to the crushed champions. “Mos’ folks would ’low ez I hed tuk toler’ble good keer o’ him without enny help from you-uns, an’, bein’ ez he hev throve toler’ble, it mought ’pear like I warn’t likely ter do nuthin’ ez would hurt him sure enough, or make him seem small ennywise. Eli Strobe hev made out ter git along fur a good many year ’thout you-uns ter take keer o’ him,—’fore Marcelly an’ Is’bel war ever hearn tell on.” For the first time the bone of contention lifted his voice. Eli Strobe wished to prevent further retort on the part of his defenders. “Shet up, chil’n,” he observed, in his calm, heavy tones. “Shet up. Ye talk like ye ain’t got no sense.” “Sense!” cried the sharp little dame. “Sense don’t run in the fambly, ez fur ez I know it.” She did not include herself among those thus deprived. She chose to consider her departed lord the head of the family, and herself as only an interloper. “Naw, sir,” she observed, after a pause, “Eli brung no news home. I never knowed a man ez would. They gredge news to wimmin folks. But law,”—she was knitting again with an appearance of great inattention to the industry, looking about over the whisking needles,—“the gals air nigh ez bad ’bout bringin’ news home, ef not wuss. Ye see, Teck, I can’t go ’bout much, bein’ rheumatic. Ye mought ’low thar warn’t enough o’ me ter ’commodate much rheumatism, but I got more’n I need. So only the gals went ter the baptizin’. Sir, they hearn nare word o’ the preachin’, nare whisper o’ the singin’, salvation seemed afar off, an’ the gran’jer o’ this worl’ war more ter them ’n the waters o’ Jordan. Yes, sir! Answer me no questions could they,—no text, no psalm, couldn’t even tell what saints war ’tendin’ on the baptizin’, nor who war saved nor who war shoutin’. Fur they war all set ter wonder over a strange man they met a-kemin’ home; special good-lookin’, accordin’ ter Marcelly.” “_Granny!_” cried the girl, starting up from her chair, overturning the spinning-wheel upon the surprised “Woolly.”