They had dropped from nowhere, mother said, bought that splendid
big farm, moved on and shut out every one. Before any one knew
people were shut out, mother, dressed in her finest, with Laddie
driving, went in the carriage, all shining, to make friends with
them. This very girl opened the door and said that her mother
was "indisposed," and could not see callers. "In-dis-posed!"
That's a good word that fills your mouth, but our mother didn't
like having it used to her. She said the "saucy chit" was
insulting. Then the man came, and he said he was very sorry, but
his wife would see no one. He did invite mother in, but she
wouldn't go. She told us she could see past him into the house
and there was such finery as never in all her days had she laid
eyes on. She said he was mannerly as could be, but he had the
coldest, severest face she ever saw.

They had two men and a woman servant, and no one could coax a
word from them, about why those people acted as they did. They
said 'orse, and 'ouse, and Hengland. They talked so funny you
couldn't have understood them anyway. They never plowed or put
in a crop. They made everything into a meadow and had more
horses, cattle, and sheep than a county fair, and everything you
ever knew with feathers, even peacocks. We could hear them
scream whenever it was going to rain. Father said they sounded
heathenish. I rather liked them. The man had stacks of money or
they couldn't have lived the way they did. He came to our house
twice on business: once to see about road laws, and again about
tax rates. Father was mightily pleased at first, because Mr.
Pryor seemed to have books, and to know everything, and father
thought it would be fine to be neighbours. But the minute Mr.
Pryor finished business he began to argue that every single thing