"Nwingy Tat! Nwingy Tat!" In his fervor Ethan had dragged the stern, unyielding horse-hair cushion off the end of the sofa, revealing two volumes hidden behind it. Mrs. Gano seemed not to regret this diversion. Helping the child to restore the sofa-cushion, she took up the books. As she read the title her look darkened. She put the work down as if it burned her fingers. "A great, bad book," she said. "What is that?" asked Mr. Tallmadge. Mrs. Gano jerked her head without answering. "What say?" persisted the old man, with his hand to his ear. "_Uncle Tom's Cabin_," said Miss Tallmadge, trying to speak lightly. "A very uncommon woman, Mrs. Stowe," said Mr. Tallmadge, firmly; "very uncommon, indeed." "Let us hope so," ejaculated Mrs. Gano, half to herself. "Eh?" inquired Mr. Tallmadge, with gruff suspicion. "What say?" "I was granting her uncommonness, and hoping it wouldn't get commoner." "H'm! It could hardly be expected, I suppose, that you should think well of--" "No; I can't be expected to think well of a woman who is not content with getting a whole nation by the ears, but she must interfere between husband and wife, and--" "What say?" inquired Mr. Tallmadge, with corrugated brows and hand to his deaf ear. "I'm talking about Harriet Beecher Stowe." "So am I," said Mrs. Gano. "I only hope she'll be content with the mischief she's done already, and not rush into print with her espousal of Lady Byron's wrongs." "I haven't heard that Mrs. Beecher Stowe had any such intention. As a friend of the family, from Lyman down--" "As a friend of the family, you ought to warn them in time to curb her propensity for attending to other people's affairs. Uncommon! Yes, an uncommon busybody." "I think, madam, you are misinformed," said Mr. Tallmadge, with dignity. "I know more about Harriet Beecher Stowe than most people--though she never _has_ set foot in the South--and I know she's a busybody. I also know she has less excuse than some women. The spring I spent with my sister, Mrs. Paget, in Covington, before I met the Stowes, I used to look out and see a man trudging about the hills in front of my windows with a basket on his arm. 'Who is that?' I asked. 'That's Professor Stowe,' they said; and we all wondered what he had in the basket. I said he was botanizing; Mrs. Paget said the basket was too big for that: he must be looking for kail, or dock, or dandelion greens for dinner. By-and-by we heard he had twins in the basket, and was taking them about for an airing. The Stowes were very poor, too, and what with that and twins, Harriet B. ought to have found enough to do at home." "Nwingy Tat! Nwingy Tat!" "Sh!" said his aunt. "_Mus'_ sing it," answered Ethan, in the only distinct words his grandmother had heard from his lips. "What is it?" she asked, more interested in Ethan's infant tastes than even in Mrs. Stowe's enormities. "It's that foolish little rhyme, 'The New England Cat,'" replied Miss Hannah.