John laughed. "I wish you'd tell the dictator what to do."
"Too late, my son, you've taken the counsel of your country's enemies." She rose to leave the room. The son slapped his thigh.
"'Pon my soul, mother, you must excuse me. Here's a letter.
"Has Jeff-Jack accepted another poem?" he asked, as she read. "I wish he'd pay for it."
She did not say, though the missive must have ended very kindly, for in spite of herself she smiled.
"Ah, John! your vanity is so large it can include even your mother. I wish I had some of it; I might believe what my friends tell me. But maybe it's vanity in me not to think they know best." She let John press her hand upon his forehead.
"I wish I could know," she continued. "I yearn for wise counsel. O son! why do we, both of us, so distrust and shun our one only common friend? He could tell us what to do, son; and, oh, how we need some one to tell us!"
John dropped the hand. "I don't need Jeff-Jack. He's got to need me."
"Oh, presumptuous boy! John, you might say Mr. Ravenel. He's old enough to be your father."
"No, he's not! At any rate, that's one thing he'll never be!"