“The nights I’ve laid awake and made plans.  My little boys died in babyhood.  I imagine their father and I would have mortgaged the farm, and I would have taken in washing, and he would have gone back to his trade to send those boys through college.  But the girls don’t need a college education.  The boys might have been ministers—­one of them, at least.  But I would like the girls to have a piano, they both play so well on the melodeon!  I would like them to be—­well, like you, Miss Prudence, and not like their rough, hardworking old mother.  I’ve shed tears enough about their education, and told the Lord about it times enough.  If the Boston plan didn’t suit, we had another, Graham and I—­he always listens and depends upon my judgment.  I’m afraid, sometimes, I depend upon my own judgment more than upon the Lord’s wisdom.  But this plan was—­” the knitting needle was being pushed vigorously through her back hair now, “to exchange the farm for a house and lot in town—­Middlefield is quite a town, you know—­and he was to go back to his trade, and I was to take boarders, and the girls were to take turns in schooling and accomplishments.  I am not over young myself, and he isn’t over strong, but we had decided on that.  I shed some tears over it, and he looked pale and couldn’t sleep, for we’ve counted on this place as the home of our old age which isn’t so far off as it was when he put that twenty-five hundred dollars into that bank.  But I do breathe freer if I think we may have this place to live and die on, small as it is and the poor living it gives us.  Father’s place isn’t much to speak of, and James will come in for his share of that, so we haven’t much to count on anywhere.  I don’t know, though,” the knitting needle was doing duty in the stocking again, “about taking your money.  You were not his wife, you hadn’t spent it or connived at his knavery.”

“I felt myself to be his wife—­I am happier in making all the reparation in my power.  All I could do for one old lady was to place her in The Old Ladies’ Home.  I know very few of the instances; I would not harrow my soul with hearing of those I could not help.  I have done very little, but that little has been my exceeding comfort.”

“I guess so,” said Mrs. West, in a husky voice.  “I’ll tell father what you say, we’ll talk it over and see.  I know you love my girls—­especially Marjorie.”

“I love them both,” was the quick reply.

“Linnet is older, she ought to have the first chance.”

Miss Prudence thought, but did not say, “As Laban said about Leah,” she only said, “I do not object to that.  We do Marjorie no injustice.  This is Linnet’s schooltime.  There does seem to be a justice in giving the first chance to the firstborn, although God chose Jacob instead of the elder Esau, and Joseph instead of his older brethren, and there was little David anointed when his brothers were refused.”

Miss Prudence’s tone was most serious, but her eyes were full of fun.  She was turning the partial mother’s weapons against herself.