“Look all you want,” was the grim reply; “I am used to being a’ object and a spectacle.”

The nurse took from her satchel a glass with which she carefully examined the dulled and lifeless eyes, sitting down afterward without a word.

“And not only a’ object and a spectacle,” continued Aunt Dalmanutha, bitterly, “but a laughing-stock and a byword for the preachers in especial to mock and flout at.  Yes, I that were once the workingest and most capablest woman up and down Clinch; I that not only could weave my fourteen yard’, or hoe my acre of corn, or clear my man’s stint of new ground, a day, but likewise had such faculty in my head-piece that I were able to manage and contrive and bring to pass; I that rejoiced in the work of my hands and the pyeertness of my mind and the fruits of my industry, and when my man died were able to run the farm and take keer of the children as good as before—­I am sot down here in the midst of rack and ruin, with the roof a-leaking over me, the chimbly sagging out, the fence rotten and the hogs in the corn, the property eatin’ their heads off, and the young uns lacking warm coats and kivers, John and Marthy being so mortal doless; I am sot here bound hand and foot, my strength brought to naught, my ambition squenched, my faculty onusable, a living monument to the hate and revenge and onjestice of God!” She spoke with growing passion, but checked herself, and began more calmly.

“And if it were just, Dalmanuthy Holt would be the last to speak ag’in’ it.  I allus prided myself on being a reasoning woman.  But just it is not, and never were, and never will be.  I have seed a sight of trouble in my day, women, and bore up under it patient and courageous.  Besides the man of my love, and the payrents that begot me, seven sons of my body have I laid in the grave, three in infancy of summer-complaint, two with the choking-disease, two with typhoid; and in all this I never once lifted up my voice ag’in’ God, but bore it still and patient, even when I were reduced down to just John, my sorriest son, and little Evy, my onliest daughter and the child of my prayer.  But, women,”—­and again strong passion thrilled in her voice,—­“when I seed that one little tender yoe lamb that I cherished with deathless love begin for to pale and cough and pine, then and thar the sword entered my soul, my heart turnt over in my breast, and I cried out wild and desperate:  ’Not this! not this!  Take all else I got, but not her!  It is cruel, it is onjust.  I rebel ag’in’ it, I will never endure it.’  And I kep’ a-crying it as I seed her fade and thin; I cried it when the last breath flickered from her pore little body; I cried it when I laid her in the cold ground; I cried it when the preachers come to see me atterward, threatening judgment; I cried it when I felt the curse a-falling and the sight of my-eyes a-going; I cried it loud and fierce at her funeral occasion; and cry it I will to the end of my darkened days!  It were cruel, it were onjust, it were horrible, it were wicked, of God to treat me that way, and never will I say it wa’ n’t!”