Catty didn’t answer, but sat looking out of the window. “Do you know what would hurt Mrs. Gage’s feelings more than anything else in the world?” “No, sir.” “To be shown that she was wrong about you, and to know that she ought to beg your pardon for what she said. I don’t know that she ever _would_ beg your pardon, because lots of people are queer, but it would be about as bad a thing for her as I can think of if she came to know that she _ought to_ do it. Wouldn’t it?” “I don’t know much about folks,” said Catty. “Maybe so.” “If you were to run away now you never could make her feel that way, could you?” “No.” “Catty, there is something you would like to have very much.” Catty looked at Dad quicklike and then looked away. “It’s the respect of people,” said Dad, quietlike and kind of gentle. “Jest because we’re shiftless they think we’re bad,” said Catty. “We ain’t. We mind our own business and never do no damage to anybody.” “But things like this that happened to-day have happened before, haven’t they? And you’re afraid they’ll happen again?” “I’m not _afraid_ they’ll happen, but I _know_ they’ll happen.” “If I were a boy,” says Dad, “and wanted something very much, I’ll bet I’d _get_ it.” “You can’t steal the respect of people that don’t know you off’n the clothes-line,” says Catty, stubborn-like. “Isn’t part of your trouble that you never let folks know you? You never stay any place long enough to let them get acquainted.” “Nobody wants to get acquainted.” “How do you know? Didn’t _we_ want to get acquainted? And there are thousands of other folks just like us.” “I hain’t never seen anybody like you, Mr. Moore.” “Well,” says Dad, “I won’t pester you about it, but think it over. If you should decide to change your mind and not let Mrs. Gage have her way and drive you out of town, why, you’ve got some friends here to start with. Hasn’t he, Mother?” “Yes,” said Mother. She didn’t say any more, but just that one word. You knew she meant it, and that was enough. We all got up from the table and I was dragging Catty away, when he stopped and turned to Mother. “I—I enjoyed the dinner a heap, Mrs. Moore,” said he, “but what done me most good was jest a-lookin’ at you. I calc’late it must be awful nice to have a mother—and her as dog-gone perty as you be.” “Catty,” said Mother, “I think that’s the nicest thing I ever had said to me,” and she leaned right over and give him a kiss. Then we went out, but all the rest of the afternoon I noticed that every little while he reached up and touched his cheek where the kiss had landed, kind of stroked the spot and patted it like it had got to be the most valuable part of his face. CHAPTER III