“And we’re glad to have him; aren’t we, Mother?”
“Yes, Clara, of course,” and Mrs. Matson spoke with a hesitation that her son could not help noticing. “Of course we just love to have you home Joe——”
“There, now, Mother, I know what you’re going to say!” he interrupted with good-natured raillery. “You rather wish I’d stuck on there at Yale, turning into a fossil, or something like that, and——”
“Oh, Joe! Of course I didn’t want you to turn into a fossil,” objected his mother, in shocked tones. “But I did hope that you might——”
“Become a sky-pilot! Is that it, Momsey?” and he put his arm about her slender waist.
“Joe Matson! What a way to talk about a minister!” she cried. “The idea!”
“Well, Mother, I meant no disrespect. A sky-pilot is an ancient and honorable calling, but not for me. So here I am. Yale will have to worry along without yours truly, and I guess she’ll make out fairly well. But how is everything? Seen any of the fellows lately? How’s father? How’s the business?”
The last two questions seemed to open a painful subject, for mother and daughter looked at one another as though each one was saying:
“You tell him!”