Try it, Ethie, won't you ?" Andy was getting in earnest now, and Ethelyn could not meet the glance of his honest, pleading eyes.
"I can't be good, Andy," she replied; "I shouldn't know how to begin or what to do." "Seems to me I could tell you a few things," Andy said.

"God didn't want you to go to Washington for some wise purpose or other, and so he put it into Dick's heart to leave you at home.

Now, instead of crying about that I'd make the best of it and be as happy as I could be here.

I know we ain't starched up folks like them in Boston, but we like you, all of us--leastwise Jim and John and me do--and I don't mean to come to the table in my shirt-sleeves any more, if that will suit you, and I won't blow my tea in my sasser, nor sop my bread in the platter; though if you are all done and there's a lot of nice gravy left, you won't mind it, will you, Ethelyn ?--for I do love gravy." Ethelyn had been more particular than she meant to be with her reasons for her disappointment, and in enumerating the bad habits to which she said Western people were addicted, she had included the points upon which Andy had seized so readily.

He had never been told before that his manners were entirely what they ought not to be; he could hardly see it so now, but if it would please Ethie he would try to refrain, he said, asking that when she saw him doing anything very outlandish, she would remind him of it and tell him what was right.
"I think folks is always happier," he continued, "when they forgit to please themselves and try to suit others, even if they can't see any sense in it." Andy did not exactly mean this as a rebuke, but it had the effect of one and set Ethelyn thinking.