CHAPTER VII
AS for Johnny's mother, she kept on thinking, too, but she yielded, for the moment, to the inevitableness of her harvest. And of course the devotion, and the invitations to Philadelphia, and the summers in Old Chester continued. Johnny's bored good humor accepted them all patiently enough; "for she is kind," he reminded himself. "And I like him," he used to tell his aunt Lydia. Once he confided his feelings on this subject to William King:
"They are queer folks, the Robertsons," Johnny said. "Why do they vegetate down here in Old Chester? They don't seem to know anybody but Aunt Lydia."
William and the big fellow were jogging along in the doctor's shabby buggy out toward Miss Lydia's; she was very frail that summer and Johnny had insisted that William King should come to see her. "The Robertsons know you, apparently," the doctor said.
"Well, yes," John said, "and they've been nice to me ever since I can remember."
"G'on!" Doctor King told his mare, and slapped a rein down on Jinny's back.
"But, Doctor King, they are queer," Johnny insisted. "What's the milk in the coconut about 'em?"
"Maybe a thunderstorm soured it."
Johnny grinned, then he looked at Jinny's ears, coughed, and said, "I'd like to ask you a question, sir."
"Go ahead."