"She was the moment you said so," Tom replied.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I know it. She burst into bloom the moment you spoke."
"Then I'm glad I said it. Some how you always make me feel glad when I've said somethin'. You are the only—only people that ever did that."
Jim had not spoken. Mrs. Mayfield asked him why he was so silent. "A man is sometimes most silent when he is afraid of saying too much," he answered, looking down.
"Mysterious wisdom," she mused, and this gave Tom his opportunity.
"Well, that's what you like, Auntie. You never did care for anything you could understand."
"I don't care for impertinence, sir," and Lou laughed at him: "There, you got it that time."
"Ma'm, I have no desire to be mysterious," said Jim. "A hay stack in an open field couldn't be plainer than my life up to now, but there comes a time even in the most honest man's life when he feels that he must hide something, and that something is the fact that he does feel."
"There, auntie," cried Tom, "he has given you enough mystery to last you—fifteen minutes."