John's lame daughter Ann halted into the room, and stepped up to the bed.
"Stand by the door for one minit, Silas," John cried. "I am having my chat confidential."
From a book Ann recited the business of that day; naming each article that had been sold, and the cost and the profit thereof.
"How's that with last year?" her father commanded.
"Two-fifteen below."
"Fool!" John whispered. "You are a cow, with your gamey leg. You're ruining the place."
Ann closed the book and put her fountain pen in the leather case which was pinned to her blouse, and she spoke this greeting: "How are you, Nuncle Silas. It's long since I've seen you." She thrust out her arched teeth in a smile. "Good-night, now. You must call and see our Richmond establishment."
"Silas," said John, "empty a dose of the medecyne in a cup for me."
"There's little comfort in medecyne," Silas observed. "Not much use is the stuff if the Lord is calling you home. Calling you home. Shall I read you a piece from the Beybile of the Welsh? It is a great pity you have forgot the language of your mother."
"I did not hear you," said John. "Don't you trouble to say it over." He drank the medicine. "Unfortunate was the row about the Mermaid Agency. I was sorry to take it away from you, but if I hadn't some one else would. We kept it in the family, Silas."