_Mrs. R._ Well, I wouldn’t think so; but it’s hard for me, somehow, to dispute a _Christian_ man’s word. _Mrs. B._ I’ve been thinking the thing all over in my mind, and I reckon—now I don’t say it is so, for I don’t know nothing at all about it—but I reckon that one o’ them men was a woman dress’d in men’s clothes; for I’ve often hearn o’ women doin’ them things, and following their True-love to the wars, and bein’ a watin’-boy to ’em and all sich. The ladies here took leave of Ned’s marvellous story, drew themselves closely round the fire, lighted their pipes, and proceeded as follows: _Mrs. B._ Jist before me and my old man was married, there was a gal name Nancy Mountcastle (_puff—puff_), and she was a mighty likely gal—(_puff_), I know’d her mighty well—she dressed herself up in men’s clothes—(_puff, puff_), and followed Jemmy Darden from P’ankatank, in _King and Queen_—(_puff_), clean up to _Loudon_. _Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff, puff._) And did he marry her? _Mrs. B._ (_sighing deeply._) No: Jemmy didn’t marry her—pity he hadn’t, poor thing. _Mrs. R._ Well, I know’d a gal on Tar River, done the same thing—(_puff, puff, puff_.) She followed Moses Rusher ’way down somewhere in the South State—(_puff, puff_.) _Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff._) And what did he do? _Mrs. R._ Ah—(_puff, puff_,) Lord bless your soul, honey, I can’t tell you what he did. Bad enough. _Mrs. B._ Well, now it seems to me—I don’t know much about it—but it seems to me men don’t like to marry gals that take on that way. It looks like it puts ’em out o’ concait of ’em. _Mrs. S._ I know’d one man that married a woman that followed him from Car’lina to this State; but she didn’t dress herself in men’s clothes. You both know ’em. You know Simpson Trotty’s sister and Rachel’s son, Reuben. ’Twas him and his wife. _Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ Oh yes, I know ’em mighty well. _Mrs. S._ Well it was his wife—she followed him out to this State. _Mrs. B._ I know’d ’em all mighty well. Her da’ter Lucy was the littlest teeny bit of a thing when it was born I ever did see. But they tell me that when I was born—now I don’t know anything about it myself—but the old folks used to tell me, that when I was born, they put me in a quart-mug, and mought o’ covered me up in it. _Mrs. S._ The lackaday! _Mrs. R._ What ailment did Lucy die of Mis’ Barny? _Mrs. B._ Why, first she took the ager and fever, and took a ’bundance o’ doctor’r means for that. And then she got a powerful bad cough, and it kept gittin’ worse and worse, till at last it turned into a consumption, and she jist nat’ly wasted away, till she was nothing but skin and bone, and she died; but, poor creater, she died mighty happy; and I think in my heart, she made the prettiest corpse, considerin’ of any bod I most ever seed. _Mrs. R. and Mrs. S._ Emph! (_solemnly._) _Mrs. R._ What did the doctors give her for the fever and ager?