The people who hemmed her in had been brilliantly reinforced by Mr. and Mrs. Whittier N. Smail⁠—Kennicott’s Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie.

The true Main Streetite defines a relative as a person to whose house you go uninvited, to stay as long as you like. If you hear that Lym Cass on his journey East has spent all his time “visiting” in Oyster Center, it does not mean that he prefers that village to the rest of New England, but that he has relatives there. It does not mean that he has written to the relatives these many years, nor that they have ever given signs of a desire to look upon him. But “you wouldn’t expect a man to go and spend good money at a hotel in Boston, when his own third cousins live right in the same state, would you?”

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!”

If Carol was writing a letter to a classmate, or planning the week’s menus, she could be certain that Aunt Bessie would pop in and titter, “Now don’t let me disturb you, I just wanted to see where you were, don’t stop, I’m not going to stay only a second. I just wondered if you could possibly have thought that I didn’t eat the onions this noon because I didn’t think they were properly cooked, but that wasn’t the reason at all, it wasn’t because I didn’t think they were well cooked, I’m sure that everything in your house is always very dainty and nice, though I do think that Oscarina is careless about some things, she doesn’t appreciate the big wages you pay her, and she is so cranky, all these Swedes are so cranky, I don’t really see why you have a Swede, but⁠—But that wasn’t it, I didn’t eat them not because I didn’t think they weren’t cooked proper, it was just⁠—I find that onions don’t agree with me, it’s very strange, ever since I had an attack of biliousness one time, I have found that onions, either fried onions or raw ones, and Whittier does love raw onions with vinegar and sugar on them⁠—”

It was pure affection.

Carol was discovering that the one thing that can be more disconcerting than intelligent hatred is demanding love.

She supposed that she was being gracefully dull and standardized in the Smails’ presence, but they scented the heretic, and with forward-stooping delight they sat and tried to drag out her ludicrous concepts for their amusement. They were like the Sunday-afternoon mob starting at monkeys in the zoo, poking fingers and making faces and giggling at the resentment of the more dignified race.

With a loose-lipped, superior, village smile Uncle Whittier hinted, “What’s this I hear about your thinking Gopher Prairie ought to be all tore down and rebuilt, Carrie? I don’t know where folks get these newfangled ideas. Lots of farmers in Dakota getting ’em these days. About cooperation. Think they can run stores better ’n storekeepers! Huh!”

“Whit and I didn’t need no cooperation as long as we was farming!” triumphed Aunt Bessie. “Carrie, tell your old auntie now: don’t you ever go to church on Sunday? You do go sometimes? But you ought to go every Sunday! When you’re as old as I am, you’ll learn that no matter how smart folks think they are, God knows a whole lot more than they do, and then you’ll realize and be glad to go and listen to your pastor!”

In the manner of one who has just beheld a two-headed calf they repeated that they had “never heard such funny ideas!” They were staggered to learn that a real tangible person, living in Minnesota, and married to their own flesh-and-blood relation, could apparently believe that divorce may not always be immoral; that illegitimate children do not bear any special and guaranteed form of curse; that there are ethical authorities outside of the Hebrew Bible; that men have drunk wine yet not died in the gutter; that 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 peddlers 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.

She found a refuge in the Jolly Seventeen. She suddenly understood that they could be depended upon to laugh with her at Mrs. Bogart, and she now saw Juanita Haydock’s gossip not as vulgarity but as gaiety and remarkable analysis.

Her life had changed, even before Hugh appeared. She looked forward to the next bridge of the Jolly Seventeen, and the security of whispering with her dear friends Maud Dyer and Juanita and Mrs. McGanum.

She was part of the town. Its philosophy and its feuds dominated her.