"I suppose if anything happened to her you would get his money."
Justin surveyed her in such austere disapprobation that she was daunted, and stammered, "You are so queer about money,—your business is to handle it, yet you haven't any respect for it, not a mite. You fling good money after bad."
Justin understood her reference, and knew that it afforded him just grounds for a retort, yet he contented himself with a silent stare at her until she went on, meekly, "You needn't take your wife away for a day or two. I will make it a subject of prayer and if the Lord directs, of course you will have to stay."
"Of course."
Her resentment did not return to her, although his tone was ironical. He had offended her terribly, this inflexible young son of hers, and even though the new member of their family was ushered in with the glamour of wealth about her, this was but a salve, a flattering ointment for a grievous wound. But after all, he was her son, her only son, and her mother's heart was touched as she got up to leave him.
"Justin," she said, and though she was not moved enough for tears, a little—a very little—whimper came at her bidding, "you have broken my heart, but I forgive you."
"No, mother, not broken," he said, also rising and laying a hand on her shoulder.
"Yes, broken," she persisted; "but you are my boy. Don't—don't let her take you away from me."
"Mother, am I likely to forget the long years that we have spent here together; the sicknesses you have nursed me through?"
"No, no, I can trust you," and she deposited her thick head of hair on his breast; "but what made you marry that chit of a thing? She looks as if she hadn't done growing. Now if it had been a woman—"