I voted against the parlor, and we sat in the kitchen.
"You've never once come up to the city, Mother," I said, "since I've been there. Won't you come some time? We could have a drive and a play."
"I've always wanted to go to the city again," she said; "I've always wanted to be there Sunday, and go to church in a big church." She looked out to see if Father was back. "Cossy," she said, "since you've been up there, have you seen much of any silverware?"
"Silverware?" I repeated.
"Not knives and forks. I mean pitchers—and coffee pots. I s'pose the houses you went to must use them common." And when I had answered, "I'd like to see some, some time, before I die," she said. "And I'd like to see a hothouse, with roses in winter."
"Come on then," I said. "We'll find some, Mother."
"The fare up and back is just exactly the fire-insurance money for three years," she said. "I always think of that."
Later, she went to baking pies, against the morrow. And she scolded somewhat about the lamp wick that was too short, and the green wood on the fire and I went and hugged her, merely because I seemed to know so well what had always made her cross. For here was the same condition which we fought for the other workers: badly remunerated toil, which was not the real expression of the toiler; and no recreation.
That night I went up to my little old room, and nothing was changed. The little tintype of me was still stuck in the mirror. "Shall I sleep with you?" Mother said. I lay with my hand in hers, immersed in a new knowledge.