the capitalistic system of distribution and the Baptist wedding-ceremony were not known in the Garden of Eden; that mushrooms are as edible as corn-beef hash; that the word “dude” is no longer frequently used; that there are Ministers of the Gospel who accept evolution; that some persons of apparent intelligence and business ability do not always vote the Republican ticket straight; that it is not a universal custom to wear scratchy flannels next the skin in winter; that a violin is not inherently more immoral than a chapel organ; that some poets do not have long hair; and that Jews are not always pedlers or pants-makers.

“Where does she get all them the’ries?” marveled Uncle Whittier Smail; while Aunt Bessie inquired, “Do you suppose there’s many folks got notions like hers?  My!  If there are,” and her tone settled the fact that there were not, “I just don’t know what the world’s coming to!”

Patiently—­more or less—­Carol awaited the exquisite day when they would announce departure.  After three weeks Uncle Whittier remarked, “We kinda like Gopher Prairie.  Guess maybe we’ll stay here.  We’d been wondering what we’d do, now we’ve sold the creamery and my farms.  So I had a talk with Ole Jenson about his grocery, and I guess I’ll buy him out and storekeep for a while.”

He did.

Carol rebelled.  Kennicott soothed her:  “Oh, we won’t see much of them. 
They’ll have their own house.”

She resolved to be so chilly that they would stay away.  But she had no talent for conscious insolence.  They found a house, but Carol was never safe from their appearance with a hearty, “Thought we’d drop in this evening and keep you from being lonely.  Why, you ain’t had them curtains washed yet!” Invariably, whenever she was touched by the realization that it was they who were lonely, they wrecked her pitying affection by comments—­questions—­comments—­advice.

They immediately became friendly with all of their own race, with the Luke Dawsons, the Deacon Piersons, and Mrs. Bogart; and brought them along in the evening.  Aunt Bessie was a bridge over whom the older women, bearing gifts of counsel and the ignorance of experience, poured into Carol’s island of reserve.  Aunt Bessie urged the good Widow Bogart, “Drop in and see Carrie real often.  Young folks today don’t understand housekeeping like we do.”

Mrs. Bogart showed herself perfectly willing to be an associate relative.

Carol was thinking up protective insults when Kennicott’s mother came down to stay with Brother Whittier for two months.  Carol was fond of Mrs. Kennicott.  She could not carry out her insults.

She felt trapped.

She had been kidnaped by the town.  She was Aunt Bessie’s niece, and she was to be a mother.  She was expected, she almost expected herself, to sit forever talking of babies, cooks, embroidery stitches, the price of potatoes, and the tastes of husbands in the matter of spinach.