“My dear friend Witherspoon,” said Colton, mouthing his cigar—­he did not smoke at home—­“I am going to branch out more.  I’m going to make investments.  I see that it is safe, and I want you to help me.”

“All right; how much do you want to invest?”

“Oh, I can place my hand on a little money—­just a little.  I’ve got some in stocks, but I’ve got a little by me.”

“How much?”

This frightened him.  “Oh, I don’t know; really, I can’t tell.  But I think that I’ve got a little that I’d like to invest.  But I’ll talk to you about it to-morrow.”

“All right.”

“I think real estate would be about the right thing.  I could soon turn it over, you know.  Some wonderfully fortunate investments have been made that way.  But I’ll talk to you about it to-morrow.”

Brooke said that he was in something of a hurry to get home, and the visitors took their leave early in the evening.  Witherspoon returned to the library after going to the door with Colton.  He sat down, stretched forth his feet, meditated for a few moments, and said:  “The bark on a beech tree was never any closer than that old man, and yet he is kind-hearted.”

“When kindness doesn’t cost anything, I suppose,” Henry suggested.

“Yes, that’s true.  He spoke of the wonderful showing of the charities of this city as though he were a prime mover in them, when, in fact, I don’t think he ever contributed more than a barrel of flour in any one year.  But he is a good business man, and if there were more like him there would be fewer bankrupts.”

Ellen appeared at the door.  “Henry, mother and I are going to your room to pay you a call.”

“All right, I’ll go up with you.  Won’t you come, father?”

“No, I believe not.  Think I’ll read a while and go to bed.”

Henry’s room was bright with a gladsome fire.  On the table had been set a vase of moss roses, and beside the vase lay an old black pipe, tied with a blue ribbon.  The young man laughed, and the girl said: 

“Mother’s doings.  Ugh! the nasty thing!”

“If my son smoked a pipe when he was in exile,” Mrs. Witherspoon replied, “he can do so now.  None of the privileges of a strange land shall be denied him in his own home.”

She sat in an easy-chair and was slowly rocking.  To man a rocking-chair is a remembrancer of a mother’s affection.

“Light your pipe, my son.”

“No, not now, mother.”

Ellen sat on an arm of Henry’s chair.  “Your hair would curl if you were to encourage it,” she remarked.

“Has anybody said anything about curly hair?” he asked.

“No, but I was just thinking that yours might curl.”

“Do you want me to look like Brooks?”

She frowned.  “He kinks his with a hot poker.  I don’t like pretty men.”

“How about handsome men?”

“Oh, I have to like them.  You are a handsome man, you know.”