"Why, mother Moxom!"
Mrs. Weaver sank into her sewing-chair in an attitude of pulpy despair.
"Well, I don't see but what it's the best thing for me to do," asserted the old woman. "The cold weather'll be coming on soon, and I always have more or less rheumatism, and they say Californay's good for rheumatism. Besides, I think I need to stir round a little; I've stayed right here 'most too close; and as long as Ethel has her heart set on going, I don't see but what it's the best plan. If I go along with her, I can make sure that everything's all right. If you and Jason say she can't go, why, then, I don't see but what I'll just have to start off and make the trip alone."
"Why, mother Moxom, I just don't know what to say!"
Mrs. Weaver's tone conveyed a deep-seated sense of injury that she should thus be deprived of speech for such insufficient cause.
"'Tisn't such a very hard trip," pursued the old woman doggedly. "They say you get on one of them through trains and take your provision and your knitting, and just live along the road. It isn't as if you had to change cars at every junction, and get so turned round you don't know which way your head's set on your shoulders."
Mrs. Weaver's expression began to dissolve into reluctant interest in these details.
"Well, of course, if you think it'll help your rheumatism, and you've got your mind made up to go, somebody'll have to go with you. Have you asked Jason?"
"No, I haven't." Mrs. Moxom's voice took on an edge. "I can't see just why I've got to ask people; sometimes I think I'm about old enough to do as I please."
"Why, of course, mother," soothed the daughter-in-law. "Would you go and see the girls before you'd start?"