“Don’t, Gran’dad,” she exclaimed suddenly, stepping alertly forward--“_don’t_ put that loaf in that thar bread-box; the box ‘pears ter be damp. Leave the loaf in the big basket till ter-morrer. It’ll eat shorter then, bein’ fraish-baked. They kin hev these biscuits fer supper,”--dropping on one knee and setting forth on the cloth, from the basket on her arm, some thick soggy-looking lumps of dough,--“I baked some dodgers, too--four, six, eight, ten,”--she was counting a dozen golden-brown cates of delectable aspect--“knowin’ they would hone fer cornmeal arter huntin’, an’ nuthin’ else nohow air fitten ter eat with feesh or aigs. Hev you-uns got any aigs!” She sprang up, and, standing on agile tiptoe, peered without ceremony into their wagon. Instantly she recoiled with a cry of horrified reproach. “Thar ‘s ants in yer short-sweetenin’! How _could_ you-uns let sechez that happen!” “Oh, surely not,” exclaimed Purcell, hastening to her side. But the fact could not be gainsaid; the neglected sugar was spoiled. Meddlesome’s unwarranted intrusion into the arcana of their domestic concerns disclosed other shortcomings. “Why n’t ye keep the top on yer coffee-can? Don’t ye know the coffee will lose heart, settin’ open?” She repaired this oversight with a deft touch, and then proceeded: “We-uns ain’t got no short-sweetenin’ at our house, but I’ll send my leetle brother ter fetch some long-sweetenin’ fer yer coffee ter night. Hyar, Sol,”--addressing the small, limber, tow-headed, barefooted boy, a ludicrous miniature of a man in long, loose, brown-jeans trousers supported by a single suspender over an unbleached cotton shirt,--“run ter the house an’ fetch the sorghum-jug.” As Sol started off with the alertness of a scurrying rabbit, she shrilly called out in a frenzy of warning: “Go the other way, Sol--up through the pawpaws! Them cherty rocks will cut yer feet like a knife.” Sol had nerves of his own. Her sharp cry had caused him to spring precipitately backward, frightened, but uncomprehending his danger. Being unhurt, he was resentful’ “They ain’t none o’ _yer_ feet, nohow,” he grumbled, making a fresh start at less speed. “Oh, yes, Sol,” said the old grandfather, enjoying the contretemps and the sentiment of revolt against Meddlesome’s iron rule. “Everything belongs ter Meddlesome one way or another, ‘ca’se she jes makes it hern. So take keer of _yer_ feet for _her_ sake.” He turned toward her jocosely as the small emissary disappeared among the undergrowth. “I jes been tellin’ these hunter-men, Meddy, ‘bout how ye sets yerself even ter meddle with other folkses’ mourning--what they got through with a hunderd year’ ago--tormentatin’ ‘bout that thar man what war starved in the tree.”