But Susan had found her wits and her tongue by this time, and she gave
free rein to her wrath.

"Let you off from school, indeed! Why, Keith Burton, I'm ashamed of
you--an' you that I've always boasted of! What do you want to do--grow
up a perfect ignominious?"

Keith drew back resentfully, and uptilted his chin.

"No, Susan Betts, I'm not wanting to be a--a ignominious, and I don't
intend to be one, either. I'm going to be an artist--a great big
famous artist, and I don't NEED school for that. How are
multiplication tables and history and grammar going to help me paint
big pictures? That's what I want to know. But I'm afraid that dad--
Say, WON'T you tell dad that I don't NEED books any more, and---"But
he stopped short, so extraordinary was the expression that had come to
Susan Betts's face. If it were possible to think of Susan Betts as
crying, he should think she was going to cry now.

"Need books? Why, child, there ain't nobody but what needs books. An'
I guess I know! What do you suppose I wouldn't give now if I could 'a'
had books an' book-learnin' when I was young? I could 'a' writ real
poetry then that would sell. I could 'a' spoke out an' said things
that are in my soul, an' that I CAN'T say now, 'cause I don't know the
words that--that will impress what I mean. Now, look a-here, Keith
Burton, you're young. You've got a chance. Do you see to it that you
make good. An' it's books that will help you do it."

"But books won't help me paint, Susan."