She raised herself on an elbow and looked out with a troubled face. "John, I think he likes that girl."
"What girl?" said he.
"What girl? Why, that awful handsome girl you see around—of course."
"Do you think he likes 'er?"
"I'm afraid so—I'm afraid so," murmured the mother mournfully.
"Oh, well," said the old man, without alarm, or grief, or pleasure in his tone.
He turned the lamp's wick very low and carried the lamp to the head of the stairs, where he perched it on the step. When he returned he said, "She's mighty good-look-in'!"
"Well, that ain't everything," she snapped. "How do we know she ain't proud, and selfish, and—everything?"
"How do you know she is?" returned the old man.
"And she may just be leading him on."