"Well, I'm monstus glad," said Mrs. Hightower. "Sis use to think the world an' all er me when she was a slip of a gal, but I reckon she's took on town ways, hain't she? Hit ain't nothin' but natchul."
"Sis is proud enough for to hoi' 'er head high," Mrs. Parmalee explained, "but she hain't a bit stuck up."
"Well, I let you know," exclaimed Mrs. Hightower, untying her bonnet and taking off her shawl, "I let you know, here's what wouldn't be sot back by nothin' ef she had Sis's chances. In about the las' word pore maw spoke on 'er dying bed, she call me to 'er an' sez, se' she, 'Purithy Emma,' se' she, 'you hol' your head high; don't you bat your eyes for to please none of 'em,' se' she."
"I reckon in reason I oughter be thankful that Sis ain't no wuss," said Mrs. Poteet, walking around with aimless hospitality; "yit that chile's temper is powerful tryin', an' Teague ackshully an' candidly b'leeves she's made out'n pyo'gol'. [Footnote: Pure gold] I wish I may die ef he don't."
After a while Sis made her appearance, buoyant and blooming. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and her smiles showed beautiful teeth—a most uncommon sight in the mountains, where the girls were in the habit of rubbing snuff or smoking. The visitors greeted her with the effusive constraint and awkwardness that made so large a part of their lives, but after a while Mrs. Hightower laid her fat motherly hand on the girl's shoulder, and looked kindly but keenly into her eyes.
"Ah, honey!" she said, "you hain't sp'ilt yit, but you wa'n't made to fit thish here hill—that you wa'n't, that you wa'n't!"
Women are not hypocrites. Their little thrills arid nerve-convulsions are genuine while they last. Fortunately for the women themselves, they do not last, but are succeeded by others of various moods, tenses, and genders. These nerve-convulsions are so genuine and so apt that they are known as intuitions, and under this name they have achieved importance. Mrs. Hightower, with all her lack of experience, was capable of feeling that Sis Poteet needed the by no means unsubstantial encouragement that lies in one little note of sympathy, and she was not at all astonished when Sis responded to her intention by giving her a smart little hug.
Presently Mrs. Parmalee, who had stationed herself near the door, lifted her thin right arm and let it fall upon her lap.
"Well, sir!" she exclaimed, "ef yander ain't Sis's bo!"
Sis ran to the door, saw Woodward coming up the road, and blushed furiously—a feat which Mrs. Hightower and Mrs. Parmalee, with all their experience, had rarely seen performed in that region.