Ben came down to breakfast late. He generally had his way now, and was seldom present at the regular breakfast hour. It was different when Squire Oakley was alive; but then many other things were different also.
"Benjamin is delicate," she said, one morning in presence of the servant. "He needs more sleep than the rest of us."
"Maybe it's smoking cigars makes him delicate," suggested the servant, who did not particularly admire Ben, or care to join his mother in making allowances for him.
Her mistress silenced her with some asperity; but nevertheless took an opportunity to speak to Ben on the subject. But that young gentleman only laughed at her remonstrances.
"It does me good, mother," he said. "I always feel better after smoking a good cigar."
"It seems to me you are growing pale," said Mrs. Oakley, whose heart was full of tenderness where Ben was concerned.
"That's all nonsense," said Ben. "I'm not as red as a beet, and I don't want to be. But as to being pale, I'm healthy enough. Don't worry yourself."
With this Mrs. Oakley had to be contented, for Ben, though a coward with his equals, had sense enough to take advantage of his mother's weak partiality, and take his own way.
When Ben came down to breakfast on the morning of his uncle's departure, he said in an indifferent tone:—
"Has that man gone?"