“‘I know, but I couldn’t help it.’

“‘He knows, an’ he couldn’t help it,’ I says.  ’The boys have flocked around you, an’ the girls have flocked around Dan.  They were afraid he’d get lonesome.  If I were you I’d put a mortgage on him an’ foreclose it as soon as possible.’

“‘It’s too late,’ says she.  ‘I hear he’s mortgaged.’

“‘You’d better search the records,’ I says, ‘an’ if it ain’t so, stop bein’ careless.  You’ve put yer father on his feet.  Now look out for yerself.’

“‘I think he’s angry on account of the ham war,’ says she.

“‘Why do you think that?’

“She told me the facts, an’ I laughed ’til the tears came to my eyes.

“‘Nonsense,’ I says, ’Dan will like that.  You wait ’til I tell him, an’ he’ll be up here with his throttle wide open.’

“‘Do you suppose he’d spend Christmas with us?’ she asked, with a very sober look.  ‘You know, his mother an’ father have gone South, an’ he’ll be all alone.’

“’Ask him at once—­call him on the ‘phone,’ I advised, an’ bade her good-bye.

“The happiness o’ Lizzie an’ the charm o’ those kids had suggested an idea.  I made up my mind that I’d try to put Mr. an’ Mrs. Bill on the job o’ keepin’ up with Lizzie.

“‘That’s a wonderful woman,’ said Mrs. Bill, as we drove away.  ’I envy her—­she’s so strong and well and happy.  She loves those babies, and is in the saddle every afternoon, helping with the work o’ the farm.’

“’Why don’t you get into the saddle and be as well and strong as she is?’ Bill asked.

“‘Because I’ve no object—­it’s only a way of doing nothing,’ said Mrs. Bill.  ’I’m weary of riding for exercise.  There never was a human being who could keep it up long.  It’s like you and your dumb-bells.  To my knowledge you haven’t set a foot in your gymnasium for a month.  As a matter of fact, you’re as tired of play as I am, every bit.  Why don’t you go into Wall Street an’ get poor?’

“‘Tired of play!’ Bill exclaimed.  ’Why, Grace, night before last you were playing bridge until three o’clock in the morning.’

“’Well, it’s a way of doing nothing skilfully and on the competitive plan,’ said she.  ’It gives me a chance to measure my capacity.  When I get through I am so weary that often I can go to sleep without thinking.  It seems to me that brains are a great nuisance to one who has no need of them.  Of course, by-and-by, they’ll atrophy and disappear like the tails of our ancestors.  Meanwhile, I suppose they are bound to get sore.  Mine is such a fierce, ill-bred, impudent sort of a brain, and it’s as busy as a bat in a belfry.  I often wish that I had one of those soft, flexible, paralytic, cocker-spaniel brains, like that of our friend Mrs. Seavey.  She is so happy with it—­so unterrified.  She is equally at home in bed or on horseback, reading the last best seller or pouring tea and compliments.  Now just hear how this brain of mine is going on about that poor, inoffensive creature!  But that’s the way it treats me.  It’s a perfect heathen of a brain.’