Mr. Allen shook his head, and sighed.  When Mercy was in this frame of mind, it was of no use to argue with her.  He returned to the subject of her poetry.

“If you will keep on reading and studying, Mercy, and will compel yourself to write and rewrite carefully, there is no reason why you should not have a genuine success as a writer, and put yourself in a position to earn money enough to buy a great many comforts and pleasures for yourself, and your mother also,” he said.

At the mention of her mother, Mercy started, and exclaimed irrelevantly,—­

“Dear me!  I never once thought of mother.”

Mr. Allen looked, as well he might, mystified.  “Never once thought of her!  What do you mean, Mercy?”

“Why, I mean I never once thought about telling her about the money.  She wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?  I should think she would not only like the money, but be very proud of your being able to earn it in such a way.”

“Perhaps that might make a difference,” said Mercy, reflectively:  “it would seem quite different to her from taking in sewing, I suppose.”

“Well, I should think so,” laughed Mr. Allen.  “Very different, indeed.”

“But it’s earning money, working for money, all the same,” continued Mercy; “and you haven’t the least idea how mother feels about that.  Father must have been full of queer notions.  She got it all from him.  But I can’t see that there is any difference between a woman’s taking money for what she can do, and a man’s taking money for what he can do.  I can do sewing, and you can preach; and of the two, if people must go without one or the other, they could do without sermons better than without clothes,—­eh, Mr. Allen?” and Mercy laughed mischievously.  “But once when I told mother I 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.