The old man started up from the pleasant after-supper drowse into which he was suffering himself to fall, content with Halleck's presence, and willing to leave the talk to the women folk. “I don't know what you mean, Ben?”
“I suppose it's my having the matter so much in mind that makes me feel as if we had talked it over. I mentioned it in one of my letters.”
“Yes,” returned his father; “but I presumed you were joking.”
Halleck frowned impatiently; he would not meet the gaze of his mother and sisters, but he addressed himself again to his father. “I don't know that I was in earnest.” His mother dropped her eyes to her mending, with a faint sigh of relief. “But I can't say,” he added, “that I was joking, exactly. The man himself was very serious about it.” He stopped, apparently to govern an irritable impulse, and then he went on to set the project of his Spanish-American acquaintance before them, explaining it in detail.
At the end, “That's good,” said his father, “but why need you have gone, Ben?”
The question seemed to vex Halleck; he did not answer at once. His mother could not bear to see him crossed, and she came to his help against herself and his father, since it was only supposing the case. “I presume,” she said, “that we could have looked at it as a missionary work.”
“It isn't a missionary work, mother,” answered Halleck, severely, “in any sense that you mean. I should go down there to teach, and I should be paid for it. And I want to say at once that they have no yellow-fever nor earthquakes, and that they have not had a revolution for six years. The country's perfectly safe every way, and so wholesome that it will be a good thing for me. But I shouldn't expect to convert anybody.”
“Of course not, Ben,” said his mother, soothingly.
“I hope you wouldn't object to it if it were a missionary work,” said one of the elder sisters.
“No, Anna,” returned Ben.