Jacob Johnson shook his head gravely. "He's made his mark, and your Cousin Jacob is only a farmer."
Sylvia's lips had nearly formed the words, "I thought so." Her eyes dropped involuntarily to the limp bag.
"I was wondering what you were intending to do here in Boston, little girl?"
"I can't stay in Boston," she returned, and her lip quivered. "Just think, Cousin Jacob, I'm spending Uncle Calvin's money when I hate him! Isn't it awful?"
"It is," returned the other, with conviction. "Hating folks is the very worst business anybody can invest in."
"I didn't mean that. Isn't it awful to be obliged to him? You don't know. You don't understand."
"Yes, I do," the speaker nodded. "I know the whole thing from A to izzard. Well, how do you expect to leave Boston, and what will you do?"
"Go on the stage."
"Oh, I guess not, little one. How old are you? You look fifteen, but you're more. I remember when you were born, and how I envied Sam."
"I'm nineteen."