“I never did see any sense in paying taxes on land you have never seen,” said Mrs. Barclay, at her sewing-machine. “Surely you can put the money where it will bring in something.”
“Milburn wants it because there is about a hundred acres that could be cleared for cultivation. I'm of the opinion that it won't make as good soil as he thinks, but I'm not going to tell him that.”
“Would you be getting as much as it cost you?” asked Mrs. Barclay, smoothing down a white hem with her thumb-nail.
“About five hundred more,” her husband chuckled. “People said when I bought it that I was as big a fool as old Bishop, but you see I've already struck a purchaser at a profit.”
Then Dolly spoke up from behind her newspaper: “I wouldn't sell it, papa,” she said, coloring under the task before her.
“Oh, you wouldn't?” sniffed her father. “And why?”
“Because it's going to be worth a good deal more money,” she affirmed, coloring deeper and yet looking her parent fairly in the eyes.
Mrs. Barclay broke into a rippling titter as she bent over her work. “Alan Bishop put that in her head,” she said. “They think, the Bishops do, that they've got a gold-mine over there.”
“You must not sell it, papa,” Dolly went on, ignoring her mother's thrust. “I can't tell you why I don't want you to, but you must not—you 'll be sorry if you do.”
“I don't know how I'm to keep on paying your bills for flimflam frippery if I don't sell something,” retorted the old man, almost and yet not quite angry. Indirectly he was pleased at her valuation of his property, for he had discovered that her judgment was good.