"You are not 'jolly,' father?" said Dolly, hanging upon him.
"Why not? Yes, I am. A man can't be very jolly that has anything to do in this world."
"O father! I should think, to have nothing to do would be what would hinder jolliness."
"Anything to do but enjoy, I mean. I don't mean nothing to do. But it ain't life, to live for business."
"Then, if I were you, I would play a little, Mr. Copley," said his wife.
"So I do. Here I am," said he, with what seemed to Dolly forced gaiety. "Now, how are you going to help me play?"
"We help you," said his wife. "Why didn't you come yesterday?"
"Business, my dear; as I said. These are good berries. Do they grow in the garden?"
"How should strawberries grow in a garden where nobody has been living?" said his wife. "And what is your idea of play in an out-of-the-way place like this, Mr. Copley?"
"Well—not a catechism," said he, slowly putting strawberries in his mouth one after the other. "What's the matter with the place? I thought it would just suit you. Isn't the air good?"