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?"