"Yes, that's true. He spoke of the wonderful showing of the charities of this city as though he were a prime mover in them, when, in fact, I don't think he ever contributed more than a barrel of flour in any one year. But he is a good business man, and if there were more like him there would be fewer bankrupts."
Ellen appeared at the door. "Henry, mother and I are going to your room to pay you a call."
"All right, I'll go up with you. Won't you come, father?"
"No, I believe not. Think I'll read a while and go to bed."
Henry's room was bright with a gladsome fire. On the table had been set a vase of moss roses, and beside the vase lay an old black pipe, tied with a blue ribbon. The young man laughed, and the girl said:
"Mother's doings. Ugh! the nasty thing!"
"If my son smoked a pipe when he was in exile," Mrs. Witherspoon replied, "he can do so now. None of the privileges of a strange land shall be denied him in his own home."
She sat in an easy-chair and was slowly rocking. To man a rocking-chair is a remembrancer of a mother's affection.
"Light your pipe, my son."
"No, not now, mother."