Mary Kelsey's foot came down on the porch floor with decided, rhythmic
pats.

The man stirred restlessly.

"But she ain't sassy, Mary," he demurred. "Jim says Katy's that sweet
an' pleasant about it that ye can't do nothin'. She tells 'em she's
kerrectin' 'em fur their own good, an' that they need culturin'. An' Jim
says she spends all o' meal-time tellin' 'bout the things on the table,
--salt, an' where folks git it, an' pepper, an' tumblers, an' how folks
make 'em. He says at first 'twas kind o' nice an' he liked ter hear it;
but now, seems as if he hain't got no appetite left ev'ry time he sets
down ter the table. He don't relish eatin' such big words an' queer
names.

"An' that ain't all," resumed Nathan, after a pause for breath. "Jim
can't go hoein' nor diggin' but she'll foller him an' tell 'bout the
bugs an' worms he turns up,--how many legs they've got, an' all that.
An' the moon ain't jest a moon no more, an' the stars ain't stars.
They're sp'eres an' planets with heathenish names an' rings an' orbits.
Jim feels bad--powerful bad--'bout it, an' he says he can't see no way
out of it. He knows they hain't had much schooling any of 'em, only
Katy, an' he says that sometimes he 'most wishes that--that she hadn't,
neither."

Nathan Kelsey's voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and with the last
words his eyes sent a furtive glance toward the stoop-shouldered little
figure in the low rocker. The chair was motionless now, and its occupant
sat picking at a loose thread in the gingham apron.