“Seems to me I could tell you a few things,” Andy said.  “God didn’t want you to go to Washington for some wise purpose or other, and so he put it into Dick’s heart to leave you at home.  Now, instead of crying about that I’d make the best of it and be as happy as I could be here.  I know we ain’t starched up folks like them in Boston, but we like you, all of us—­leastwise Jim and John and me do—­and I don’t mean to come to the table in my shirt-sleeves any more, if that will suit you, and I won’t blow my tea in my sasser, nor sop my bread in the platter; though if you are all done and there’s a lot of nice gravy left, you won’t mind it, will you, Ethelyn?—­for I do love gravy.”

Ethelyn had been more particular than she meant to be with her reasons for her disappointment, and in enumerating the bad habits to which she said Western people were addicted, she had included the points upon which Andy had seized so readily.  He had never been told before that his manners were entirely what they ought not to be; he could hardly see it so now, but if it would please Ethie he would try to refrain, he said, asking that when she saw him doing anything very outlandish, she would remind him of it and tell him what was right.

“I think folks is always happier,” he continued, “when they forgit to please themselves and try to suit others, even if they can’t see any sense in it.”

Andy did not exactly mean this as a rebuke, but it had the effect of one and set Ethelyn thinking.  Such genuine simplicity and frankness could not be lost upon her, and long after Andy had left her and gone to his room, where he sought in his prayer-book for something just suited to her case, she sat pondering all he had said, and upon the faith which could make even simple Andy so lovable and good.

“He has improved his one talent far more than I have my five or ten,” she said, while regrets for her own past misdeeds began to fill her bosom, with a wish that she might in some degree atone for them.

Perhaps it was the resolution formed that night, and perhaps it was the answer to Andy’s prayer that God would have mercy upon Ethie and incline her and his mother to pull together better, which sent Ethelyn down to breakfast the next morning and kept her below stairs a good portion of the day, and made her accept James’ invitation to ride with him in the afternoon.  Then when it was night again, and she saw Eunice carrying through the hall a smoking firebrand, which she knew was designed for the parlor fire, she changed her mind about staying alone upstairs with the books she had commenced to read, but brought instead the white, fleecy cloud she was knitting, and sat with the family, who had never seen her more gracious or amiable, and wondered what had happened.  Andy thought he knew; he had prayed for Ethie, not only the previous night, but that morning before he left his room, and also during the day—­once in the barn upon a rick of hay and once behind the smoke-house.