believed I would turn dressmaker for the town, I knew I could earn ever so
much money, besides doing a philanthropy in getting some decent gowns into
the community, she was so horrified and unhappy at the bare idea that I
never have forgotten it. It is just so with ever so many women here. They
would rather half-starve than do any thing to earn money. For my part, I
think it is nonsense."

"Certainly, Mercy,--certainly it is," replied Mr. Allen, anxious lest this
new barrier should come between Mercy and her work. "It is only a
prejudice. And you need never let your mother know any thing about it.
She is so old and feeble it would not be worth while to worry her."

Mercy's eyes grew dark and stern as she fixed them on Mr. Allen. "I wonder
I believe any thing you say, Mr. Allen. How many things do you keep back
from me, or state differently from what they are, to save my feelings? or
to adapt the truth to my feebleness, which is not like the feebleness of
old age, to be sure, but is feebleness in comparison with your knowledge
and strength? I hate, hate, hate, your theories about deceiving people. I
shall certainly tell my mother, if I keep on writing, and am paid for it,"
she said impetuously.

"Very well. Of course, if you think it wrong to leave her in ignorance
about it, you must tell her. I myself see no reason for your mentioning
the fact, unless you choose to. You are a mature and independent woman:
she is old and childish. The relation between you is really reversed. You
are the mother, and she the child. Suppose she had become a writer when
you were a little girl: would it have been her duty to tell you of it?"
replied Mr. Allen.

"I don't care! I shall tell her! I never have kept the least thing from