“Out in the barn, beddin' down the horse. That is, I told him to do that, but his head was so full of you and what you told him you said to Mr. Colton that I shouldn't be surprised if he's bedded down the hens and was huntin' in the manger for eggs.” “Lute thinks I've gone crazy,” I observed. “Um-hm. He was all for fetchin' the doctor right off, but I told him I cal'lated we could bear with your ravin's for a spell. Did you say what he said you said?” “I'm afraid I did.” “Um-hm. Well, it didn't do any good, did it?” “Good? What do you mean?” “I mean he didn't obey orders--Colton, that is.” “He hadn't when I left.” “I thought not. I never saw any good come from profane language yet; and, besides, judgin' from what I hear about the way that Colton man lives, and what he does on Sundays and all, he'll make the port you sent him to when his time comes. All you need is patience.” I laughed, and she began sorting the plated spoons. We had silver ones, but Dorinda insisted on keeping those to use when we had company. In consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came. “Of course,” she said, “I ain't askin' you what happened over there or why he wanted to see you. But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't, Lute will. Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the stitches any minute.” “I'll tell you both, at supper,” I said. “Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Well, I can wait, and Lute'll have to. By the way,” she added, seeing me about to enter Mother's room, “if it's anything too unpleasant I wouldn't worry Comfort with it. She'll want to know, of course, but I'd sort of smooth the edges.” Mother did want to know, and I told her, “smoothing the edges” all I could. I omitted my final order to “Big Jim” and I said nothing whatever about his daughter. Mother seemed to think I had done right in refusing to sell, though, as usual, she was ready to make allowances for the other side. “Poor woman,” she said, “I suppose the noise of the wagons and all that are annoying to any one with weak nerves. It must be dreadful to be in that condition. I am so sorry for her.” She meant it, too. But I, remembering the Colton mansion, what I had seen of it, and contrasting its splendor with the bare necessity of that darkened bedroom, found it hard to spare pity for the sufferer from “nerves.” “You needn't be,” I said, bitterly. “I imagine she wouldn't think of you, if the conditions were reversed. I doubt if she thinks of any one but herself.” “You shouldn't say that, Roscoe. You don't know. You have never met her.” “I have met the rest of the family. No, Mother, I think you needn't be sorry for that woman. She has everything under the sun. Whereas you--” “Hush! hush! There is one thing she hasn't got. She hasn't a son like you, Boy.” “Humph! That must be a terrible deprivation. There! there! Mother, I won't be disagreeable. Let's change the subject. Did Matilda Dean come to see you this afternoon?”