“Yes, I like the gray ones better.”
“So does this abounding dust. My black clothes were getting rusty, so I made a contribution of them to the water nymphs of the Platte.”
“Why did you wear those weeds?”
“They served my purpose, sir.”
“You almost provoke me into profanity, Mrs. McAlpin; you are so mysteriously non-committal.”
“Glad to hear it. Men don’t feel like swearing when death is staring them in the face.”
“Your supper is getting cold, and Mrs. Benson says you must hurry up.” The intruder, as usual, was Jean.
“I will see you later, Mr. Burns,” said Mrs. McAlpin, and she ran away, laughing.
“You seem very happy this evening, mamma,” she said, as with cup and plate in hand she seated herself on a wagon-tongue.
Mrs. Benson blushed. “Why don’t you eat?” she asked, evading her daughter’s question.