"I may have made mistakes, madam," said Adam; "but true it is, as the wise man has said, that he who has never made mistakes has never made anything."
"Tush!" said Mrs. Fairbrother.
"Ruth, do you refuse to take me in?" said Adam.
"This house is mine," said she; "mine by law and deed, as tight as wax can make it."
"Do you refuse to take me in?" said Adam again, rising to his feet.
"You have brought ruin on yourself by your shilly-shally and vain folly," said she; "and now you think to pat your nose and say your prayers by my fireside."
"Ruth," said Adam once more, "do you refuse to take me in?"
"Yes, and that I do," said she. "You would beggar me as you have beggared yourself, but that I warrant you never shall."
Then there was a grim silence for a moment. Old Adam gripped convulsively the staff he leaned on, and all but as loud as the ticking of the clock was the beating of his heart.
"God give me patience," he said. "Yes, I'll bear it meekly. Ruth," he said, huskily, "I'll not trouble you. Make yourself sure of that. While there's a horse-wallet to hang on my old shoulders, and a bit of barley bread to put in it, I'll rove the country round, but I'll never come on my knees to you and say, 'I am your husband, I gave you all you had, and you are rich and I'm a beggar, and I am old—give me for charity my bed and board.'"