“I would trust my boys, if they were thy age, Dorothy; but their resolution is tender like their years.”
It might be questioned whether the frame of mind in which the boys went to bed that night under their mother's eye, for Rachel could be firm in a case of conscience, was more improving than the frivolity of Slocum's barn.
“Mother,” called Dorothy, looking in at the kitchen window where Rachel was stooping over the embers in the fireplace to light a bedroom candle, “I want to speak to thee.”
Rachel came to the window, screening the candle with her hand.
“Will thee trust me to look at the dancing a little while? It is so very near.”
“Why, Dorothy, does thee want to?”
“Yes, mother, I believe I do. I've never seen a dance in my life. It cannot ruin me to look just once.”
Rachel stood puzzled.
“Thee's old enough to judge for thyself, Dorothy. But, my child, do not tamper with thy inclinations through heedless curiosity. Thee knows thee's more impulsive than I could wish for thy own peace.”
“I'll be very careful, mother. If I feel in the least wicked I will come straight away.”