It went without saying that if Mother liked a thing in that home Father
would, too. His sun rose and set in Mother, and they had lived together
so long and harmoniously that the thoughts of one were the reflection of
the other. It didn't matter which, you asked about a thing, you were
sure to get the same opinion as if you had asked the other. It wasn't
that one gave way to the other; it was just that they had the same
habits of thought and decision, the same principles to go by. So when,
after she had passed the hot johnny-cake, seen to it that Father had the
biggest pork chop and the mealiest potato, and given him his cup of
coffee creamed and sugared just right, Mother got out the letter with
the university crest and began to read. She had no fears that Father
would not agree with her about it. She read eagerly, sure of his
sympathy in her pleasure; sure he would think it was nice of Stephen's
friend to write to her and pick her out as a real mother, saying all
those pleasant things about her; sure he would be proud that she, with
all the women they had in the East, should have so brought up a boy that
a stranger knew she was a real mother. She had no fear that Father would
frown and declare they couldn't be bothered with a stranger around, that
it would cost a lot and Mother needed to rest. She knew he would be
touched at once with the poor, lonely girl's position, and want to do
anything in his power to help her. She knew he would be ready to fall
right in with anything she should suggest. And, true to her conviction,
Father's eyes lighted with tenderness as she read, watched her proudly
and nodded in strong affirmation at the phrases touching her ability as
mother.

"That's right, Mother, you'll qualify for a job as mother better 'n any
woman I ever saw!" said Father, heartily, as he reached for another
helping of butter.