"Now, father, I haven't any such idea, and you know it, too. But I do think that people who spend their lives in getting money can't be as refined as those who have a higher aim."
Witherspoon grunted. "What do you call a higher aim? Hanging about a picture gallery and simpering over a lot of long-haired fellows in outlandish dress, ha? Is it refinement to worship a picture simply because you are not able to buy it? Some people rave over art, and we buy it and hang it up at home."
She laughed, and slipping off her chair, ran round to her father and put her arms about his neck. "I can always stir you up, can't I?"
"You can when you talk that way," he answered.
"But you know I don't mean that you aren't refined. Who could be more gentle than you are? But you must let me enjoy an occasional mischief. My mother's people, the Craigs, were all full of mischief, and"
"Ellen," said her mother.
Witherspoon laughed, and reaching back, pretended to pull the girl's ears. "Am I going down town with you?" she asked.
"No, not this morning. I'm going to drive Henry down in the light buggy. My boy, I've got as fine a span of bay horses as you ever saw. Cost me five thousand apiece. That's art for you; eh, Ellen?"
"They are beautiful," she admitted.
"Yes, and strung up with pride. Get ready, Henry, and we'll go."