“He became a planter, a gentleman and my husband.”
“Well,” said Morey, a little bitterly, “don’t think of me any more this evening if it makes you think of father.”
“And he had other notions,” continued Mrs. Marshall in a reminiscent tone, “why, before we were married, he had a workshop somewhere here on the plantation.”
“What was he working on?” asked Morey abruptly.
The mother shook her head.
“I never knew,” she answered lightly, “but I do know, now, that his boy ought not be blamed for having the same fancies. I know you’ll get over them,” she said, patting his hand, “and that’s why I’ve relented. It may be extravagant but, Morey, I’m not going to countermand your purchase. You may have your engine.”
His mother straightened up in her chair ready for Morey’s burst of gratitude. But it did not come.
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Morey slowly and with the tears almost in his eyes, “but I’m reconciled. I think Major Carey knows best. We can’t get it just now.”
“Morey, I’m proud of you. There you are really like your father. He quit his foolish experiments to please me.” And drawing the lad to her she patted his cheek.
Morey’s head filled with a dozen ideas—among them, the wild desire to examine his father’s desk drew him like a magnet. When his mother had returned to her book again the boy slipped into the hall. A single candle flickered in the gloom. With this in his nervous fingers he made his way to the hall above. He knew that his father’s old office and study—the room in front across from his mother’s bed room was locked but he knew, too, where her keys hung. From the hook at the head of her bed he took these and, a moment later, he was in the long-locked apartment.