unfairly. Mr. Frye wanted to get his daughter away from him. "Well,"
he said in his mind, to Mr. Frye, "just go easy. Just go easy, Mr.
Frye." And he winked again at Mr. Crabbe. "That's right," he said,
"give it to him."

When Mr. Jeminy left Anna, at the edge of the village, he went to call
on Grandmother Ploughman. He found her in the company of old Mrs.
Crabbe, who had brought her knitting over, for society's sake. Mrs.
Ploughman received him with quiet dignity, due to a sense of the wrong
she had suffered, for which she blamed Mrs. Wicket, and the Democratic
Party. Mr. Ploughman, she often said, had been a good Republican all
his life. Unfortunately, he was dead; otherwise, things would have
been different.

It seemed to her that the country was being run by a set of villains.
"The world is in a bad way," she declared. "I don't know what we're
coming to." And an expression of bleak satisfaction illuminated her
face, wrinkled with age.

"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy, "these are unhappy times. I am afraid we are
leaving behind us a difficult task for those who follow. They had a
right to expect better things of us, Mrs. Ploughman."

"I've not left anything behind," said Mrs. Ploughman decidedly; "not
yet."

"I should hope not," ejaculated Mrs. Crabbe. "No."

"It's the young," said Mrs. Ploughman, "who get the old into trouble.
Nothing ever suits them until they're in mischief; and then it's up to