“So Marcia says,” replied Bartley. “Well, take care of yourself.—You confounded, tight-fisted old woodchuck!” he added under his breath, for the Squire had allowed him to pay the hack fare.
He walked home, composing variations on his parting malison, to find that the Squire had profited by his brief absence while ordering the hack, to leave with Marcia a silver cup, knife, fork, and spoon, which Olive Halleck had helped him choose, for the baby. In the cup was a check for five hundred dollars. The Squire was embarrassed in presenting the gifts, and when Marcia turned upon him with, “Now, look here, father, what do you mean?” he was at a loss how to explain.
“Well, it's what I always meant to do for you.”
“Baby's things are all right,” said Marcia. “But I'm not going to let Bartley take any money from you, unless you think as well of him as I do, and say so, right out.”
The Squire laughed. “You couldn't quite expect me to do that, could you?”
“No, of course not. But what I mean is, do you think now that I did right to marry him?”
“Oh, you're all right, Marcia. I'm glad you're getting along so well.”
“No, no! Is Bartley all right?”
The Squire laughed again, and rubbed his chin in enjoyment of her persistence. “You can't expect me to own up to everything all at once.”
“So you see, Bartley,” said Marcia, in repeating these words to him, “it was quite a concession.”