“You ought to be ashamed!” she said, shaking her head at herself in the glass as at a gay, young thing. “To be thinkin’ about gettin’ married! With a big girl like Pills too. One good thing: He really seems to think as much of Pills as you do yourself, Mrs. Mansfield. That’s what makes me so—happy, I guess. I believe it’s the first time I ever was real happy before.” She sighed unconsciously as she glanced back over her years of married life. “An’ I don’t know what makes me so awful happy now. But sometimes when I get up of a mornin’ I just feel as if I could go out on the hill an’ sing—foolish as any of them larks holler’n’ for joy. “Mariella,” she said, watching the duster in the girl’s hands, “what made you flare up so when I called you ‘Pills?’ You never done that before, an’ I don’t see what ails you all of a sudden.” “I didn’t mean to flare up,” said Mariella. She opened the cigar-case and arranged the boxes carefully. Then she closed it with a snap and looked at her mother. “But I wish you’d stop it, ma. Mr. Grover said——” “Well, what ’id he say?” “He said it wasn’t a nice name to call a girl by.” Mariella’s face reddened, but she was stooping behind the counter. Mrs. Mansfield drummed on the show-case with broad fingers and looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said with significance, after a pause, “if he don’t like it, I won’t do it. We’ve had lots o’ fun over it, Pills, ain’t we—I mean Mariella—but I guess he has a right to say what you’ll be called, Pi—— my dear.” “Oh, ma,” said Mariella. Her face was like a poppy. “Well, I guess you won’t object, will you? I’ve been wond’rin’ how you felt about it.” “Oh, ma,” faltered the girl; “do you think, honest, he—— he——” “Yes, I do,” replied her mother, laughing comfortably and blushing faintly. “I’m sure of it. An’ I’m happier ’n I ever was in my life over it. I don’t think I could give you a better stepfather, or one that would think more of you.” Mariella stood up slowly behind the counter and looked—stared—across the room at her mother, in a dazed, uncomprehending way. The color ebbed slowly out of her face. She did not speak, but she felt the muscles about her mouth jerking. She pressed her lips more tightly together. “I hope you don’t think I oughtn’t to marry again,” said her mother, returning her look without understanding it in the least. “Your pa’s been dead ten years”—this in an injured tone. “There ain’t many women—— Oh, good mornin’, Mr. Lester? Mariella, ’ll you wait on Mr. Lester? Well”—beaming good naturedly on her customer—“how’s real estate this mornin’? Any new sales afoot?”