“Hallam and I had a lot to talk about.”
He came running up, and entering her room found her propped up on her pillows.
Mrs. Follette in bed lost nothing of her dignity. Her gray hair at night was braided and wound into a coronet above her serene forehead. She wore something knitted in white and black about her shoulders. There was a prayer-book on her bedside table—and pineapple posts to her bed. She had inherited her religion and her furniture from her ancestors, and she kept them both in order.
“Mother,” said Evans, and stood looking down at her, “Hallam wants me to sell some of the old books and use the money to open an office.”
“What kind of office?”
“Law. In town.”
“But are you well enough, Evans?”
“He says that I am. He says that I must think that I am well, Mother.”
“But——”
“Dearest, don’t spoil it with doubts. It’s my life, Mother.”