“Why should you try to talk ’em out of her, papa?” inquired Mrs. Daggett mildly. “Mebbe her ideas is all right; and anyhow, s’long as she’s paying out good money—” “Oh, she’ll pay! she’ll pay!” said Mr. Daggett, with a large gesture. “Ain’t no doubt about her paying for what she wants.” He shoved his plate aside, and tipped back in his chair with a heavy yawn. “She’s asked me to see about the wall paper, Abby,” he continued, bringing down his chair with a resounding thump of its sturdy legs. “And she’s got the most outlandish notions about it; asked me could I match up what was on the walls.” “Match it up? Why, ain’t th’ paper all moldered away, Henry, with the damp an’ all?” “’Course it is, Abby; but she says she wants to restore the house—fix it up just as ’twas. She says that’s th’ correct thing to do. ‘Why, shucks!’ I sez, ‘the wall papers they’re gettin’ out now is a lot handsomer than them old style papers. You don’t want no old stuff like that,’ I sez. But, I swan! you can’t tell that girl nothing, for all she seems so mild and meachin’. I was wonderin’ if you couldn’t shove some sense into her, Abby. Now, I’d like th’ job of furnishin’ up that house with new stuff. ‘I don’t carry a very big stock of furniture,’ I sez to her; but—” “Why, Hen-ery Daggett!” reproved his wife, “an’ you a reg’lar professing member of the church! You ain’t never carried no stock of furniture in the store, and you know it.” “That ain’t no sign I ain’t never goin’ to, Abby,” retorted Mr. Daggett with spirit. “We been stuck right down in the mud here in Brookville since that dratted bank failed. Nobody’s moved, except to the graveyard. And here comes along a young woman with money ... I’d like mighty well to know just how much she’s got an’ where it come from. I asked the Judge, and he says, blamed if he knows.... But this ’ere young female spells op-per-tunity, Abby. We got to take advantage of the situation, Abby, same as you do in blackberrying season: pick ’em when they’re ripe; if you don’t, the birds and the bugs’ll get ’em.” “It don’t sound right to me, papa,” murmured his wife, her kind face full of soft distress: “Taking advantage of a poor young thing, like her, an’ all in mourning, too, fer a near friend. She told Lois so ... Dear, dear!” Mr. Daggett had filled his morning pipe and was puffing energetically in his efforts to make it draw. “I didn’t _say_ take advantage of _her_,” he objected. “That’s somethin’ I never done yet in my business, Abby. Th’ Lord knows I don’t sand my sugar nor water my vinegar, the way some storekeepers do. I’m all for ‘live an’ let live.’ What I says was—... Now, you pay attention to me, Abby, and quit sniffling. You’re a good woman; but you’re about as soft as that there butter! ...” The article in question had melted to a yellow pool under the heat. Mrs. Daggett gazed at it with wide blue eyes, like those of a child. “Why, Henry,” she protested, “I never heerd you talk so before.”