Sylvia found these views on the drama wholly edifying.  Circuses and sassafras tea were within the range of her experience, and finding that she had struck a point of contact, Mrs. Owen expressed her pity for any child that did not enjoy a round of sassafras tea every spring.  Sassafras in the spring, and a few doses of quinine in the fall, to eliminate the summer’s possible accumulation of malaria, were all the medicine that any good Hoosier needed, Mrs. Owen averred.

“I’m for all this new science, you understand that,” Mrs. Owen continued.  “A good deal of it does seem to me mighty funny, but when they tell me to boil drinking-water to kill the bugs in it, and show me pictures of the bugs they take with the microscope, I don’t snort just because my grandfather didn’t know about those things and lived to be eighty-two and then died from being kicked by a colt.  I go into the kitchen and I say to Eliza, ‘Bile the water, Liza; bile it twice.’  That’s the kind of a new woman I am.  But let’s see; we were speaking of Marian.”

“I liked her very much; she’s very nice and ever so interesting,” said Sylvia.

“Bless you, she’s nice enough and pretty enough; but about this college business.  I always say that if it ain’t in a colt the trainer can’t put it there.  My niece—­that’s Mrs. Bassett, Marian’s mother—­wants Marian to be an intellectual woman,—­the kind that reads papers on the poets before literary clubs.  Mrs. Bassett runs a woman’s club in Fraserville and she’s one of the lights in the Federation.  They got me up to Fraserville to speak to their club a few years ago.  It’s one of these solemn clubs women have; awful literary and never get nearer home than Doctor Johnson, who was nothing but a fat loafer anyhow.  I told ’em they’d better let me off; but they would have it and so I went up and talked on ensilage.  It was fall and I thought ensilage was seasonable and they ought to know about it if they didn’t.  And they didn’t, all right.”

Sylvia had been staring straight ahead across the backs of the team; she was conscious suddenly that Mrs. Owen was looking at her fixedly, with mirth kindling in her shrewd old eyes.  Sylvia had no idea what ensilage was, but she knew it must be something amusing or Mrs. Owen would not have laughed so heartily.

“It was a good joke, wasn’t it—­talking to a literary club about silos.  I told ’em I’d come back and read my little piece on ‘Winter Feeding,’ but they haven’t called me yet.”

They had driven across to Meridian Street, and Mrs. Owen sent the horses into town at a comfortable trot.  They traversed the new residential area characterized by larger grounds and a higher average of architecture.

“That’s Edward Thatcher’s new house—­the biggest one.  They say it’s easier to pay for a castle like that out here than it is to keep a cook so far away from Washington Street.  I let go of ten acres right here in the eighties; we used to think the town would stop at the creek,” Mrs. Owen explained, and then announced the dictum:  “Keep land; mortgage if you got to, but never sell; that’s my motto.”