He smiled quietly, taking her satchel to carry.

“When we came to Pittsburg, I said to Pratt, ’I’ll follow you to New York in a day or two, but I’m going now to see Paul Blecker’s little wife. She’s sound, into the marrow.’  And I’ll tell you, too, what I said to Pratt.  ’That is a true marriage, heart and soul and ways of thinking.  God fitted those two into one another.’  Some matches, Doctor Blecker, put me in mind of my man Kellar, making ready the axes for winter’s work, little head on big heft, misjoined always:  in consequence, thing breaks apart with no provocation whatever.  “When God wants work done down here, He makes His axes better,—­eh?”

There was a slight pause.

“Maybe, now, you’ll think I take His name in vain, using it so often.  But I like to get at the gist of a matter, and I generally find God has somewhat to do with everything,—­down to the pleasement, to me, of my bonnet:  or the Devil,—­which means the same, for he acts by leave.—­Where did you get that Cottrell, Doctor?  From Faris?  Pha! pha!  Grey showed me the look in his face this morning, innocent, naif, as all well-blooded horses’ eyes are.  Like her own, eh?  I says to Pratt, long ago,—­twenty he was then,—­’When you want a wife, find one who laughs out from her heart, and see if dogs and horses kinsfolk with her:  that’s your woman to marry, if they do.’”

They had stopped by the front-steps for her to finish her soliloquy.  Grey tapped on the window-pane.

“Yes, yes, I see.  You want to go in.  But first,”—­lowering her voice,—­“I was at the Gurney house this evening.”

“You were?” laughed the Doctor, “And what did you do there?”

“Eh?  What?  Something is needed to be done, and I—­Yes, I know my reputation,”—­her face flushing.

“You strike the nails where they are needed,—­what few women do, Mrs. Sheppard,” said the Doctor, trying to keep his face grave.  “Strike them on the head, too.”

“Umph!”

No woman likes to be classed properly,—­no matter where she belongs.

“I never interfere, Doctor Blecker; I may advise.  But, as I was going to say, that father of Grey’s seemed to me such a tadpole of a man, rooting after tracks of lizards that crept ages ago, while the country is going to mash, and his own children next door to starvation, I thought a little plain talk would try if it was blood or water in his veins.  So I went over to spend the day there on purpose to give it to him.”

“Yes.  Well?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I see.  Then you tried Joseph?”

“No, he is in able hands.  That Loo is a thorough-pacer,—­after my own heart.—­Talking of your family, my dear,” as Grey opened the door.  “Loo will do better for them than you.  Pardon me, but a lot of selfish men in a family need to be treated like Pen here, when his stomach is sour.  Give them a little wholesome alkali:  honey won’t answer.”