"They're his."
"Then put them down."
"But I think he'd like me to dry them. Where was the man lying to get so wet?"
"Give them here. I'll see to them. What did you say his name was?"
"Edward Webb. I think I'll just put them in the sun. They're good books, and he's read a lot in them."
"Does it say where he comes from?"
"I wouldn't think of looking," said Alexander. "They're his property. But I'll dry them."
"Alexander——" began his father noisily, but the boy had stepped out of doors with a face changed from natural gravity to impishness.
Rutherford shouted at his wife. "Clara, I've had enough of it. He'd defy me if I lay dying. As if I wasn't fit to touch the books! There's something wrong with the lad."
"Jim, don't wake that poor man with your shouting," she said briskly. She looked serene and competent. "Eat your breakfast. And as for Alexander, he didn't choose you for his father, and it's for you to make him glad he's got you"—her tone changed—"as glad as I am that you're my man."