Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt.  “Mother!” he cried.  “How can you say such things!”

“Why not?” she queried, imperturbably.  “He knows he’s blind, I guess, and he certainly can’t think he’s young, so what harm does it do to speak of it?  Anyway,” she added, piously, “I always say just what I think.”

Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth restlessly.  “People who always say what they think, Mother,” he answered, not unkindly, “assume that their opinions are of great importance to people who probably do not care for them at all.  Unless directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest to ourselves.”

“I was kind,” objected Miss Mattie.  “I was tellin’ him he ought not to take the risk of hurtin’ himself by runnin’ around alone.  I don’t know what ails you, Roger.  Every day you get more and more like your pa.”

[Sidenote:  Dangerous Rocks]

“How long had you and father known each other before you were married?” asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations.

“’Bout three months.  Why?”

“Oh, I just wanted to know.”

“I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn’t think it now.”  Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Roger, politely.

“Your pa and me used to go to church together.  He sang in the choir and I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon.  I can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin’ when the windows was open in Summer.  A bee come in once while the minister was prayin’ and lighted on Deacon Emory’s bald head.  Seems a’most as if ’t was yesterday.

[Sidenote:  Great Notions]

“Your pa had great notions,” she went on, after a pause.  “Just before we was married, he said he was goin’ to educate me, but he never did.”

III

The Tower of Cologne

Roger sat in Ambrose North’s easy chair, watching Barbara while she sewed.  “I am sorry,” he said, “that I wasn’t at home when your father came over after the book.  Mother was unable to find it.  I’m afraid I’m not very orderly.”

“It doesn’t matter,” returned Barbara, threading her needle again.  “I steal too much time from my work as it is.”

Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair.  “I wish I could come over every day and read to you, but you know how it is.  Days, I’m in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father wants you and my mother wants me.”

“I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I’m sure your mother doesn’t sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time.  I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn’t you come over then?”