“It did not require a great deal of pains. I merely put on what Dorinda calls my Sunday clothes. I don't know why I did, either. I certainly don't consider the festival important.”
“I am glad you did. I have been a little troubled about you of late, Boy. It has seemed to me that you were growing—well, not careless, exactly, but indifferent. As if you were losing interest in life. I don't blame you. Compelled to waste your time here in the country, a companion to a bedridden old woman like me.”
“Hush, Mother. You're not old; and as to wasting my time—why, Mother, you know—”
“Yes, yes, Boy, I know what you would say. But it does trouble me, nevertheless. I ought to bid you go back into the world, and take your place among men. A hundred times I have been upon the point of telling you to leave me, but—but—I am SO selfish.”
“Hush, Mother, please.”
“Yes, I AM selfish and I know it. I am growing stronger every day; I am sure of it. Just a little longer, Roscoe, just a little longer, and then—”
“Mother, I—”
“There, there!” she stroked my hand. “We won't be sad, will we. It pleases me to see you taking an interest in affairs. I think this Shore Lane matter may be a good thing, after all. Dorinda says that Luther tells her you are becoming very popular in town because of your independent stand. Everyone recognizes your public spirit.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Not in those words. You know Dorinda. But what amounts to that. I am sure the Denboro people are very proud of you.”