Something of the insensate pride that mothers have in their children’s faults, as their quick tempers, or their wastefulness, or their revengefulness, expressed itself in her tone; and it was perhaps this that irritated Westover.

“I hope he’ll never let her know it.  I don’t think a strong will is a thing to be prized, and I shouldn’t consider it one of Cynthia’s good points.  The happiest life for her would be one that never forced her to use it.”

“I don’t know as I understand you exactly,” said Mrs. Durgin, with some dryness.  “I know Jeff’s got rather of a domineering disposition, but I don’t believe but she can manage him without meetin’ him on his own ground, as you may say.”

“She’s a girl in a thousand,” Westover returned, evasively.

“Then you think he’s shown sense in choosin’ of her?” pursued Jeff’s mother, resolute to find some praise of him in Westover’s words.

“He’s a very fortunate man,” said the painter.

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Mrs. Durgin acquiesced, as much to Jeff’s advantage as she could.  “You know I was always afraid he would make a fool of himself, but I guess he’s kept his eyes pretty well open all the while.  Well!” She closed the subject with this exclamation.  “Him and Cynthy’s been at me about Jackson,” she added, abruptly.  “They’ve cooked it up between ’em that he’s out of health or run down or something.”

Her manner referred the matter to Westover, and he said:  “He isn’t looking so well this summer.  He ought to go away somewhere.”

“That’s what they thought,” said Mrs. Durgin, smiling in her pleasure at having their opinion confirmed by the old and valued friend of the family.

Whereabouts do you think he’d best go?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Italy—­or Egypt—­”

“I guess, if you could get Jackson to go away at all, it would be to some of them old Bible countries,” said Mrs. Durgin.  “We’ve got to have a fight to get him off, make the best of it, and I’ve thought it over since the children spoke about it, and I couldn’t seem to see Jackson willin’ to go out to Californy or Colorady, to either of his brothers.  But I guess he would go to Egypt.  That a good climate for the—­his complaint?”

She entered eagerly into the question, and Westover promised to write to a Boston doctor, whom he knew very well, and report Jackson’s case to him, and get his views of Egypt.

“Tell him how it is,” said Mrs. Durgin, “and the tussle we shall have to have anyway to make Jackson believe he’d ought to have a rest.  He’ll go to Egypt if he’ll go anywheres, because his mind keeps runnin’ on Bible questions, and it ’ll interest him to go out there; and we can make him believe it’s just to bang around for the winter.  He’s terrible hopeful.”  Now that she began to speak, all her long-repressed anxiety poured itself out, and she hitched her chair nearer to Westover and wistfully clutched his sleeve.  “That’s the worst of Jackson.  You can’t make him believe anything’s the matter.  Sometimes I can’t bear to hear him go on about himself as if he was a well young man.  He expects that medium’s stuff is goin’ to cure him!”