When the Smails sold their creamery in North Dakota they visited Mr. Smail’s sister, Kennicott’s mother, at Lac-qui-Meurt, then plodded on to Gopher Prairie to stay with their nephew.  They appeared unannounced, before the baby was born, took their welcome for granted, and immediately began to complain of the fact that their room faced north.

Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie assumed that it was their privilege as relatives to laugh at Carol, and their duty as Christians to let her know how absurd her “notions” were.  They objected to the food, to Oscarina’s lack of friendliness, to the wind, the rain, and the immodesty of Carol’s maternity gowns.  They were strong and enduring; for an hour at a time they could go on heaving questions about her father’s income, about her theology, and about the reason why she had not put on her rubbers when she had gone across the street.  For fussy discussion they had a rich, full genius, and their example developed in Kennicott a tendency to the same form of affectionate flaying.

If Carol was so indiscreet as to murmur that she had a small headache, instantly the two Smails and Kennicott were at it.  Every five minutes, every time she sat down or rose or spoke to Oscarina, they twanged, “Is your head better now?  Where does it hurt?  Don’t you keep hartshorn in the house?  Didn’t you walk too far today?  Have you tried hartshorn?  Don’t you keep some in the house so it will be handy?  Does it feel better now?  How does it feel?  Do your eyes hurt, too?  What time do you usually get to bed?  As late as that?  Well!  How does it feel now?”

In her presence Uncle Whittier snorted at Kennicott, “Carol get these headaches often?  Huh?  Be better for her if she didn’t go gadding around to all these bridge-whist parties, and took some care of herself once in a while!”

They kept it up, commenting, questioning, commenting, questioning, till her determination broke and she bleated, “For heaven’s sake, don’t dis-cuss it!  My head ’s all right!”

She listened to the Smails and Kennicott trying to determine by dialectics whether the copy of the Dauntless, which Aunt Bessie wanted to send to her sister in Alberta, ought to have two or four cents postage on it.  Carol would have taken it to the drug store and weighed it, but then she was a dreamer, while they were practical people (as they frequently admitted).  So they sought to evolve the postal rate from their inner consciousnesses, which, combined with entire frankness in thinking aloud, was their method of settling all problems.

The Smails did not “believe in all this nonsense” about privacy and reticence.  When Carol left a letter from her sister on the table, she was astounded to hear from Uncle Whittier, “I see your sister says her husband is doing fine.  You ought to go see her oftener.  I asked Will and he says you don’t go see her very often.  My!  You ought to go see her oftener!”