"What I'm a-tellin' you, Jonas, you know as well as I do; but I jest want to let you know that we-all ain't been asleep all this time. Lumsden got a good job in Atlanta, an' took his wife an' baby thar. Him an' his wife was so well suited to one another that when one died, the other thought the best thing she could do was to go an' jine him. Both on 'em know'd mighty well that the Lord would look arter the little gal. Oh, I know what you want to say: you want to tell me that you was afear'd Lumsden would turn out to be no 'count, bekaze he was wild when a boy--an' would have his fling now an' then; but that don't go wi' me, Jonas. You know what he turned out to be; you know what Cordelia had to go through; you know that one kind word from you would 'a' been wuth more to her than all the money you've got in the world; an' yit, your pride, or your venom--you kin name it an' keep it--hender'd you from makin' that poor child as happy as she mought 'a' been. An' I'll tell you, Jonas, jest as shore as the Lord lives an' the sun shines on a troubled world, you'll have to pay for it." Several times during this remarkable tirade--remarkable because it was delivered with some vehemence, right in old Jonas's teeth--he made an effort to interrupt Mr. Sanders, but the latter had put him down with a gesture that a novel writer would call imperious. Imperious or not, it gave pause to whatever old Jonas had to say in his own behalf; and it must have all been true, too, for the old fellow finally turned away, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pretended to be looking at something interesting that he saw from the window. Mr. Sanders, when he had concluded, was surprised to find that old Jonas seemed to be more hurt than angry; and he would have gone into the parlour where Adelaide was still playing with Cally-Lou, but old Jonas turned around and faced him. "You've said a great many things, Sanders, that nobody else would have said, and I gather that you consider me to be a pretty mean fellow; but did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm not as mean as I seem to be? Did it ever occur to you that a man could be so shy and suspicious that he was compelled to close his mind against what you call love and affection; and, that, with his mind thus closed, he could cease to believe in such things? I don't suppose you follow me; but it's the simple truth. That child in there won't be put to bed at night until she kisses me good-night, and, even then she wont go until I kiss her. Think of that, Sanders! No matter what you and other people may think, the child doesn't believe that I am a mean man."