"I can't afford to wait till I'm an old man, Aunt Jane," he said; "and I don't mean to have the 'delirous triangles,' if I can help it. You wouldn't keep me at home till I'm eighty, like Mrs. Perkins———-"
"I'm only sixty-two," exclaimed the old lady indignantly. "What do you mean by calling me eighty?"
"I didn't know you were sensitive about your age."
"I ain't," snarled the old lady; "I own up to sixty-two, but you needn't call me twenty years older."
Mrs. Perkins was really seventy-two and looked her age; but she fondly hoped to deceive the public.
"Do you really think you had better go to Boston, Ben?" said his aunt, after the departure of the visitor.
"Yes, Aunt Jane. There's no chance for me in Milltown, as you know very well. Mr. Archer's prejudiced against me, and won't take me into the mill."
"I shall miss you very much, Ben."
"I'll write you once every week."
"How much will you get?"