ek, head, "yes, _rather_
pleasant, but melancholy. And no wonder, talking about her aches and
pains all the time! But that's where the button manufacturer showed. She
was devoted to that boy of hers, and a very nice child he was, too." She
looked sharply at her niece as she spoke.

"I remember him," Lois said. "I saw Gifford shake him once; 'he was too
little to lick,' he said."

"I'm afraid Gifford is very rough and unmannerly sometimes," Mrs. Dale
said. "But then, those Woodhouse girls couldn't be expected to know how
to bring up a big boy."

"I don't think Giff is unmannerly," cried Lois.

"Well, not exactly," Mrs. Dale admitted; "but of course he isn't like Mr.
Forsythe. Gifford hasn't had the opportunities, or the money, you know."

"I don't think money is of much importance," said Lois. "I don't think
money has anything to do with manners."

"Oh, you don't know anything about it!" cried Mrs. Dale. "There! you made
me make a mistake, and lose my game. Pray do not be silly, Lois, and talk
in that emphatic way; have a little more repose. I mean this young man
is--he is very different from anybody you have ever seen in Ashurst. But
there is no use trying to tell you anything; you always keep your own
opinion. You are exactly like a bag of feathers. You punch it and think
you've made an impression, and it comes out just where it went in."

Lois laughed, and rose to go.

"Tell your father what I said about a winter in town," Mrs. Dale called
after her; and then, gathering her cards up, and rapping them on the
table to get the edges straight, she said to herself, "But perhaps it
won't be necessary to have a winter in town!" And there was a grim sort
of smile on her face when, a moment later, Mr. Dale, in a hesitating way,
pushed the door open, and entered.

"I thought I heard Lois's voice, my dear," he said, with a deprecating
expression.

He wore his flowered cashmere dressing-gown, tied about the waist with a
heavy silk cord and tassel, and a soft red silk handkerchief was spread
over his white hair to protect his head from possible draughts in the
long hall. Just now one finger was between the pages of "A Sentimental
Journey."

"She was here," said Mrs. Dale, still smiling. "I was telling her the
Forsythes were coming. It is an excellent thing; nothing could be
better."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Dale.

"Mean?" cried his wife. "What should I be apt to mean? You have no sense
about such things, Hen