them, or open their boxes," sneered Mrs. White, still with the same
intolerable sarcastic manner. "I don't doubt they could find some use for
your services."

"O mother, don't!" pleaded Stephen, "please don't. I do not wish to go
near them or ever see them, if it will make you any less happy. Do let us
talk of something else."

"Who ever said a word about your not going near them, I'd like to know?
Have I ever tried to shut you up, or keep you from going anywhere you
wanted to? Answer me that, will you?"

"No, mother," answered Stephen, "you never have. But I wish I could make
you happier."

"You do make me very happy, Steve," said Mrs. White, mollified by the
gentle answer. "You're a good boy, and always was; but it does vex me to
see you always so ready to be at everybody's beck and call; and, where
it's a woman, it naturally vexes me more. You wouldn't want to run any
risk of being misunderstood, or making a woman care about you more than
she ought."

Stephen stared. This was a new field. Had his mother gone already thus far
in her thoughts about Mercy Philbrick? And was her only thought of the
possibility of the young woman's caring for him, and not in the least of
his caring for her?

And what would ever become of the peace of their daily life, if this kind
of jealousy--the most exacting, most insatiable jealousy in the
world--were to grow up in her heart? Stephen was dumb with despair. The