“I am glad, if it pleases you. And you must let me say this now, Roscoe, because it is true and I mean it. If another and better opportunity comes to you, one that might take you away from Denboro--and from me--for a time, of course, I want you to promise me that you will not refuse it on my account. Will you promise?” “No. Of course I shan't promise any such thing. Is it likely that I would leave you, Mother?” “I know that you would not leave me unless I were willing for you to go. I know that, Roscoe. But I am much better and stronger than I was. I shall never be well--” “Don't say that,” I interrupted, hastily. “But I must say it, because it is true. I shall never be well, but I am strong enough now to bear the thought of your leaving me and when the time comes I shall insist upon your doing so. I am glad we have had this talk, dear. I am glad, too, that you are going to be busy once more in the way you like and ought to be. You must tell me about your work every day. Now go, because your dinner is ready and, of course, you must be getting back to the bank. Kiss me, Boy.” And as I bent over her she put her arms about my neck. “Boy,” she whispered, “I know there is some reason for your doing this, a reason which you have not told me. You will tell me some day, won't you?” I straightened hurriedly and tried to laugh. “Of course I'll tell you, Mother,” I replied. “If there is anything to tell.” The clam pie was on the table in the dining-room and Dorinda was seated majestically before it. Lute was fidgeting in his chair. “Here he is,” he exclaimed, as I joined the pair at the table. “Ros, how did you ever come to do it?” His wife squelched him, as usual. “If Roscoe's got anything to tell,” she observed, with dignity, “he'll tell it without your help or anybody else's. If he ain't, he won't. This pie's colder than it ought to be, but that isn't my fault.” As I ate I told them of my sudden determination to become a laboring man. I gave the reasons that I had given Mother. “Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “But I can't understand,” pleaded Lute. “You don't need to work, and I've sort of took a pride in your not doin' it. If I was well-off, same as you be, I bet George Taylor'd have to whistle afore I wore out MY brains in his old bank.” “He wouldn't have time to whistle more'n once,” was Dorinda's comment. “Now, Dorinda, what kind of talk is that? Wouldn't have time to whistle? You do say more things without any sense to 'em! Just talk to hear yourself, I cal'late. What are you grinnin' at, Roscoe?” “I can't imagine, Lute. This clam pie is a triumph. May I have another helping, Dorinda?” Dorinda did not answer, but the second helping was a liberal one. She was so quiet and the glances she gave me from time to time were so odd that I began to feel uneasy. I was fairly sure that she approved of my new venture, but why did she look at me like that? “Well,” said I, looking at my watch and rising, “what do you think of it? Am I doing right?”