“I don't know,” said Lemuel, “as I want to go home and be the laughing-stock.”
Against this point Sewell felt himself helpless. He could not pretend that the boy would not be ridiculous in the eyes of his friends, and all the more ridiculous because so wholly innocent. He could only say, “That is a thing you must bear,” and then it occurred to him to ask, “Do you feel that it is right to let your family meet the ridicule alone?”
“I guess nobody will speak to mother about it, more than once,” said Lemuel, with a just pride in his mother's powers of retort. A woman who, unaided and alone, had worn the Bloomer costume for twenty years in the heart of a commentative community like Willoughby Pastures, was not likely to be without a cutting tongue for her defence.
“But your sister,” urged Sewell; “your brother-in-law,” he feebly added.
“I guess they will have to stand it,” replied Lemuel.
The minister heaved a sigh of hopeless perplexity. “What do you propose to do, then? You can't remain here without means. Do you expect to sell your poetry?” he asked, goaded to the question by a conscience peculiarly sore on that point.
It made Lemuel blush. “No, I don't expect to sell it, now. They took it out of my pocket on the Common.”
“I am glad of that,” said the minister as simply, “and I feel bound to warn you solemnly, that there is absolutely no hope for you in that direction.”
Lemuel said nothing.
The minister stood baffled again. After a bad moment he asked, “Have you anything particular in view?”