“Bad!”--the rocker stopped abruptly. “Why, Nathan!”
“Yes; he--” There was a pause, then the words came with the rush of desperation. “He said home wan’t like home no more. That Katy was as good as gold, an’ they was proud of her; but she was turrible upsettin’. Jim has ter rig up nights now ter eat supper--put on his coat an’ a b’iled collar; an’ he says he’s got so he don’t dast ter open his head. They’re all so, too--Mis’ Hopkins, an’ Sue, an’ Aunt Jane--don’t none of ’em dast ter speak.”
“Why, Nathan!--why not?”
“‘Cause of--Katy. Jim says there don’t nothin’ they say suit Katy--’bout its wordin’, I mean. She changes it an’ tells ’em what they’d orter said.”
“Why, the saucy little baggage!”--the rocker resumed its swaying, and 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.
“I--I wouldn’t ‘a’ spoke of it,” stammered the man, with painful hesitation, “only--well, ye see, I--you-” he stopped helplessly.