“Maybe,” she went on, “I’d ‘a’ been more gentle with your pa if I’d realised just what condition his mind was in.  There’s a book in the attic full of just such writin’ as this.  I found it once when I was cleaning, but I never paid no more attention to it.  I surmised it was somethin’ he was copyin’ out of another book that he’d borrowed from the minister, but I see now.  The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.  If I’d ‘a’ knowed what it was then, maybe I couldn’t have bore it as I can now.”

Seizing his opportunity, Roger put the book and the letter aside.  Miss Mattie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which Roger had brought to her from the post-office that same night, and began to read.  Roger sat back in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory of Chance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controlling purpose behind the extraordinary things that happened.

[Sidenote:  Inner Turmoil]

Miss Mattie wiped her spectacles twice and changed her position three times.  Then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer.  At last she clucked sharply with her false teeth—­always the outward evidence of inner turmoil or displeasure.

“What’s the matter, Mother?”

“I can’t see with these glasses,” she said, fretfully.  “I can see a lot better without ’em than I can with ’em.”

“Have you wiped them?”

“Yes, I’ve wiped ’em till it’s a wonder the polish ain’t all wore off the glass.”

“Put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down on your nose.”

“I’ve tried that, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more I can’t see.  The further away they are, the better ’t is.  When I have ’em off, I can see pretty good.”

“Then why don’t you take them off?”

“That sounds just like your pa.  Do you suppose, after payin’ seven dollars and ninety cents for these glasses, and more’n twice as much for my gold-bowed ones, that I ain’t goin’ to use ’em and get the benefit of ’em?  Your pa never had no notion of economy.  They’re just as good as they ever was, and I reckon I’ll wear ’em out, if I live.”

“But, Mother, your eyes may have changed.  They probably have.”

[Sidenote:  Miss Mattie’s Eyes]

Miss Mattie went to the kitchen and brought back a small, cracked mirror.  She studied the offending orbs by the light, very carefully, both with and without her spectacles.

“No, they ain’t,” she announced, finally.  “They’re the same size and shape and colour that they’ve always been, and the specs are the same.  Your pa bought ’em for me soon after you commenced readin’ out of a reader, and they’re just as good as they ever was.  It must be the oil.  I’ve noticed that it gets poorer every time the price goes up.”  She pushed the paper aside with a sigh.  “I was readin’ such a nice story, too.”

“Shan’t I read it to you, Mother?”

“Why, I don’t know.  Do you want to?”