“Merciful, suz! don’t you be worried about her. I’ll see to her, and ef she acts ugly Lisha’ll fetch her round; men can always settle such things better’n we can, and he’s a dreadful smart man Lisha is. We’ll go to-morrer and get your belongins, and then settle right down for a spell; and by-an’-by when you git a trifle more chipper we’ll find a nice place in the country some’rs. That’s what you want; nothin’ like green grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. When I was a gal, ef I got low in my mind, or riled in my temper, I jest went out and grubbed in the gardin, or made hay, or walked a good piece, and it fetched me round beautiful. Never failed; so I come to see that good fresh dirt is fust rate physic for folk’s spirits as it is for wounds, as they tell on.” “That sounds sensible and pleasant, and I like it. Oh, it is so beautiful to feel that somebody cares for you a little bit, and you ain’t one too many in the world,” sighed Christie. “Don’t you never feel that agin, my dear. What’s the Lord for ef He ain’t to hold on to in times of trouble. Faith ain’t wuth much ef it’s only lively in fair weather; you’ve got to believe hearty and stan’ by the Lord through thick and thin, and He’ll stan’ by you as no one else begins to. I remember of havin’ this bore in upon me by somethin’ that happened to a man I knew. He got blowed up in a powder-mill, and when folks asked him what he thought when the bust come, he said, real sober and impressive: ‘Wal, it come through me, like a flash, that I’d served the Lord as faithful as I knew how for a number a years, and I guessed He’d fetch me through somehow, and He did.’ Sure enough the man warn’t killed; I’m bound to confess he was shook dreadful, but his faith warn’t.” Christie could not help smiling at the story, but she liked it, and sincerely wished she could imitate the hero of it in his piety, not his powder. She was about to say so when the sound of approaching steps announced the advent of her host. She had been rather impressed with the “smartness” of Lisha by his wife’s praises, but when a small, sallow, sickly looking man came in she changed her mind; for not even an immensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed composed entirely of what the boys call “creak leather,” could inspire her with confidence. Without a particle of expression in his yellow face, Mr. Wilkins nodded to the stranger over the picket fence of his collar, lighted his pipe, and clumped away to enjoy his afternoon promenade without compromising himself by a single word. His wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as she said: “Them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he made every stitch on ’em himself;” then she added, laughing like a girl: “It’s redick’lus my bein’ so proud of Lisha, but ef a woman ain’t a right to think wal of her own husband, I should like to know who has!”