“That's right, old lady,” he admitted. “I had you, and thank the Almighty for it. Yes, I had you . . . But,” his anger returning, “when I think how that damned scamp stole our girl from us and then neglected her and killed her—”
“ZELOTES! How you talk! He DIDN'T kill her. How can you!”
“Oh, I don't mean he murdered her, of course. But I'll bet all I've got that he made her miserable. Look here, Mother, you and she used to write back and forth once in a while. In any one of those letters did she ever say she was happy?”
Mrs. Snow's answer was somewhat equivocal. “She never said she was unhappy,” she replied. Her husband sniffed and resumed his pacing up and down.
After a little Olive spoke again.
“New York IS a good ways,” she said. “Maybe 'twould be better for you to meet this lawyer man in Boston. Don't you think so?”
“Bah!”
Another interval. Then: “Zelotes?”
“Yes,” impatiently. “What is it?”
“It's her boy, after all, isn't it? Our grandson, yours and mine. Don't you think—don't you think it's your duty to go, Zelotes?”