wen 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."

It was nearly six when they reached home, and dinner was appointed for
seven. Mrs. Owen drove directly into the barn and gave minute
instructions as to the rubbing-down and feeding of the horses. In
addressing the negroes she imitated their own manner of speech. Sylvia
had noticed that Mrs. Owen did not always pronounce words in the same
way, but such variations are marked among our Southwestern people,
particularly where, as in Mrs. Owen's case, they have lived on both
sides of the Ohio River. Sometimes she said "hoss," unmistakably; and
here, and again when she said "bile" for "boil," it was obviously with
humorous intention. Except in long speeches she did not drawl; at times
she spoke rapidly, snapping off sentences abruptly. Her fashion of
referring to herself in the third person struck Sylvia as most amusing.

"Look here, you Joe, it's a nice way to treat yo' Mis' Sally, turning
out that wagon with the dash all scratched. Don' you think I'm blind
and can't tell when you boys dig a broom into a varnished buggy! Next
time I catch yo' doing that I'll send you down to Greene County to plow
co'n and yo'll not go to any more fancy hoss shows with me."

As she followed Mrs. Owen into the house Sylvia thought she heard
suppressed guffawing in the stable. Mrs. Owen must have heard it too.

"A worthless lot," she muttered; "I'm going to clean 'em all out some
day and try the Irish"; but Mrs. Sally Owen had often made this threat
withou