"He was always making a song," he said, "about what he’d do when he struck it rich. ’I’ll be off home that slick you’ll hear the bump,’ he used to say, ’and I’ll be planning all the way how I’ll burn the cash!’ I’d like to buy the farm for the old dad;--guess Squire’d part all right if I could pass him enough. As for the old woman, there’s just no end to what I’d do,--glad rags and brooches, and help all round the house. It’d be just Heaven and Witham Gala, playing Providence to the old woman! ... That’s what I want my brass for, when I strike it rich!’" "A fool’s dream!" Sarah said. "A fine fool’s dream." "Them as dreams over much likely never does nowt else." He leaned forward still further, the smile more urgent on his lips. "There was only one thing used to fret him," he went on, "and he spent a powerful lot of time thinking about it, and wearing himself thin. ’S’pose she don’t know me when I sail in?’ he used to say. ’S’pose I’m that changed I might as well be any other mother’s son as well as hers? There’s a mighty pile o’ years between us,--big, terrible years! I’d sure break my heart if she didn’t know me right off, even if I’d grown a face like a pump-handle and a voice like a prize macaw! But I guess I needn’t trouble,’ he used to say, ’because mothers always know. I’ve got that slick by heart,--they always know.’" He waited a moment, and then pressed on, with a note that was like alarm. "Say, he was right, wa’n’t he?"--he asked anxiously,--"dead right? It’s a sure cinch that mothers always know?" The force of his demand seemed almost to shake the obstinate figure so cynically aloof. It was as if he were prompting her to something that she knew as well as he, but would not admit for some reason of her own. Even after he had stopped speaking the demand seemed to persist, and she answered at last with a cold smile on her hard face. "Nay, my lad," she said sneeringly, "you needn’t put yourself about! Eliza’ll be fain to see you, wherever you got your brass. She’ll know you well enough, never fret, wi’ yon pack o’ cards in your hand!" His smile died as if she had struck him,--the whole laughing pleasure of him died. "I worked for it honest," he said in reply, but his voice sounded dull and tired. Even in the dusk she might have seen the spirit go out of him, the lines in his face deepen, his head sink, his shoulders droop. The merry boy that had come into the house was gone, leaving the stern man of middle age. Sarah could not see what she had done to him, but she could feel the change. Scenes with Jim in the old days had always ended much as this. Many a time he had come to her full of affection and fun, and in a few moments she had slain them both. He had looked up at her with hurt eyes that still laughed because they couldn’t do anything else, and had held to his old cry--"I’m _your_ lad _really_, Aunt Sarah,--same as Geordie is!"