plate of doughnuts and a great dish of butter.

"Oh, come now, Ma; please tell me," I wheedled, not content with a
proverb.

"Why, Nelly, I don't know; the' ain't nobody does know. I was well-
favoured at your age, but your pa wan't much on looks. But Pa had a sister
who was reel good-lookin', an' some says you've got her eyes. Maybe you'll
take after her. But land! You can't never tell. I've seen some of the
prettiest babies grow up peaked and pindlin' an' plain as a potato;
whilst, on the other hand, reel homely children sometimes come up an' fill
out rosy-cheeked an' bright-eyed as you please. There was my half-sister
Rachel, now, eight years younger'n me. I remember well how folks said she
was the homeliest baby they ever see; an' she grew up homely, too, just a
lean critter with big eyes an' tousled hair; but she got to be reel pretty
'fore she died. Then there's my own Cousin Francie, she that married
Tim'thy Baker an' went to New York to live. She's a bright, nice-lookin'
woman, almost han'some; an' her little girls are, too; about your age they
be. An'--"

I suppose the lonely prairie life had made Ma fond of talking, without
much regard for her audience. Often have I heard her for an hour at a time
steadily whispering away to herself. Now she had forgotten her only
auditor, a wide-eyed little girl, and was fairly launched upon monologue,
the subject answering as well as another her imperious need.

"Which of Pa's sisters, Ma?" I asked, interrupting.

"W'ich of his sisters--w'at? Wat you talkin' 'bout now?"