or I ought to be. But,
you see, I thought sure the letter was from those hat folks's lawyers,
sayin' they'd started suit. When I found it wasn't, I was so glad I
forgot everything else. Ah hum!--poor Aunt Laviny!"

He sighed. His wife shook her head.

"Daniel," she said, "I--I declare I try not to lose patience with you,
but it's awful hard work. Mourning! Mourn for her! What did she ever do
to make you sorry she was gone? Did she ever come near us when she was
alive? No, indeed, she didn't. Did she ever offer to give you, or even
lend you, a cent? I guess not. And she knew you needed it, for I wrote
her."

"You DID? Serena!"

"Yes, I did. Why shouldn't I? I wrote her six months ago, telling her
how bad your business was, and that Gertie was at school, and we were
trying to give her a good education, and how much money it took and--oh,
everything. When your Uncle Jim's business was bad, in the hard
times back in '73, who was it that helped him out and saved him from
bankruptcy? Why, his brother--your own father. And he never got a cent
of it back. I reminded her of that, too."

Daniel sprang out of his chair.

"You did!" he cried again. "Serena, how could you? You knew how Father
felt about that money. You knew how I felt. And yet, you did that!"

"I did. Somebody in this family must be practical and worldly-minded,
and I seem to be the one. YOU wouldn't ask her for a cent. You wouldn't
ask anybody for money, even if they owed it a thousand years. You sell
everybody anything they want from the store; and trust them for it. You
know you do. You sold that good-for-nothing Lem Brackett a whole suit of
clothes only last week, and he owes you a big bill and has owed it for a
year."

Her husband looked troubled. "Well," he answered, slowly, "I suppose
likely I didn't do right there. But those Bracketts are poor, and
there's a big family of 'em, and the fall's comin' on, and--and all.
So--"

"So you thought it was your duty to help support them, I suppose. Oh,
Daniel, Daniel, I don't know what to do with you sometimes."

Captain Dan looked very grave.

"I guess you're right, Serena," he admitted. "I ain't much good, I'm
afraid."

Mrs. Dott's expression changed. She rose, walked over, and kissed him.
"You're too good, that's the main trouble with you," she said. "Well, I
won't scold any more. I'm glad we've got the three thousand anyway--and
the tea-pot."

"It's a lovely tea-pot, all engravin' and everything.