"Mother," I says, "I'm separate. I'm somebody else. I'm old enough to get a-hold of some life like you've had, and some work I want to do. And I can't do it if I stay here. I'm separate—don't you see that?"
Then it come over me, dim, how surprised she must feel, after all, to have to think that, that I was separate, instead of her and hers. I went over toward her—I wanted to tell her so. But she says:
"I don't know what you're coming to. And I'm glad I don't. When I'm dead and gone, you'll think of this."
And then I couldn't say what I'd tried to say. But I thought what she said was true, that I would think about it some day, and be sorry. If it hadn't been for Mis' Bingy, I s'pose I'd have given it up, even then. It's hard to make a thing that's been so for a long time stop being so. But Mis' Bingy needed me, and I was sorry for her; and I liked the feeling.
On the stairs Mother thought of something else.
"What about Luke?" she says.
I hadn't thought of Luke.
"He'd ought to be the one to set his foot down," says Mother, "seeing we can't do anything with you."
Set his foot down—Luke! Why? Because he'd tell me he loved me and I said I'd marry him! I went to the pail for a drink of water, and I stood there and laughed. Luke setting his foot down on me because I said he might!