"Hubert, have you forgotten yourself? Mr. Winthrop will think we have got demoralized."
"Forgive me, mother mine, but Miss Selwyn astounded me. Fancy her working for her bread."
"And liberty," I said, merrily.
"You have got an instalment of that already, permission to dispense the fruit and vegetables. The work has been given as a punishment for making acquaintance with common people."
"That will be a pleasure; see what I am already doing for some of them." I took my forgotten knitting work from my pocket.
"I deeply regret I must so soon leave Oaklands. I really think you will make things livelier here than they have been since Mr. Winthrop was a lad. Just for one moment, mother, try to imagine his disgust when he finds his high-bred ward knitting socks for Dan Blake's little monkeys."
"Dan Blake has no children, Hubert," his mother said, gravely; "and I am not going to trouble myself about what may never happen. It is not necessary for Mr. Winthrop to know how his ward spends her spare time and pocket money."
"But he would as soon think of exchanging civilities with his own dumb animals as with those folk on the Mill Road; and, yet, right under his nose these little arrangements getting manufactured! It is carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance."
"Is that a specimen of your college conversation, Hubert? If so, you might better remain at Oaklands."
"Surely, mother; you don't expect us to talk like a sewing society or select gathering of maiden ladies," Hubert said with some disgust. "Fancy a lot of young fellows picking and choosing their words as if they were a company of prigs."