I avoided the issue. “You don't mind, then, Mother,” I said. “You are willing that I should try the experiment?”
“I am glad, if it pleases you. And you must let me say this now, Roscoe, because it is true and I mean it. If another and better opportunity comes to you, one that might take you away from Denboro—and from me—for a time, of course, I want you to promise me that you will not refuse it on my account. Will you promise?”
“No. Of course I shan't promise any such thing. Is it likely that I would leave you, Mother?”
“I know that you would not leave me unless I were willing for you to go. I know that, Roscoe. But I am much better and stronger than I was. I shall never be well—”
“Don't say that,” I interrupted, hastily.
“But I must say it, because it is true. I shall never be well, but I am strong enough now to bear the thought of your leaving me and when the time comes I shall insist upon your doing so. I am glad we have had this talk, dear. I am glad, too, that you are going to be busy once more in the way you like and ought to be. You must tell me about your work every day. Now go, because your dinner is ready and, of course, you must be getting back to the bank. Kiss me, Boy.”
And as I bent over her she put her arms about my neck.
“Boy,” she whispered, “I know there is some reason for your doing this, a reason which you have not told me. You will tell me some day, won't you?”
I straightened hurriedly and tried to laugh. “Of course I'll tell you, Mother,” I replied. “If there is anything to tell.”
The clam pie was on the table in the dining-room and Dorinda was seated majestically before it. Lute was fidgeting in his chair.