The widow, not apparently able to answer such a poser, the old gentleman continued:
"Poor widows, poor people of any kind, have no business with incumbrances, ma'am; no excuse at all, ma'am, for 'em."
"So, alas!" said Mrs. Glenn, "I find the world too—too much inclined to reason; but I shall trust to the mercy and providence of the Lord, if denied the kind feelings of mortals."
"Ah, yes, yes, that's it, ma'am; it's all very fine, ma'am; but too many poor, foolish creatures get themselves in a scrape, then depend upon the Lord to help 'em out. This shifting the responsibility to the shoulders of the Lord isn't right. I don't wonder the Lord shuts his ears to half he's asked to do, ma'am."
"Well, sir, I thought I would call, though I feared my children would be an objection to—"
"Yes, yes,—I don't want incumbrances, ma'am."
"But I—I a—"—the widow's heart was too full for utterance; she moved towards the door. "Good morning, sir."
"Stop, come back, ma'am, sit down; it's a pity—you've no business, ma'am, as I said before, to have incumbrances, when you haven't got any visible means of support. Now, if you only had one, one incumbrance—and that you'd no business to have"—said the old gent, doggedly, tapping an antique tortoise-shell snuff box, and applying "the pungent grains of titillating dust," as Pope observes, to his proboscis, "if you had only one incumbrance—but you've got a house full, ma'am."
"No, sir, only three!" answered widow Glenn.
"Three, only three? God bless me, ma'am, I wouldn't be a poor woman with two—no, with one incumbrance at my petticoat tails—for the biggest ship and cargo old Steve Girard ever owned, ma'am."