"How do I know what they were thinking?" Never mind. People do know,
or else how do they ever tell stories? We know lots of things that we
_don't_ tell all the time. We don't stop to think whether we know
them or not; but they are underneath the things we feel, and the
things we do.
Grandfather came in, and said over the same old stereotypes. He had a
way of saying them, so that we knew just what was coming, sentence
after sentence. It was a kind of family psalter. What it all meant
was, "I've looked in to see you, and how you are getting along. I do
think of you once in a while." And our worn-out responses were, "It's
very good of you, and we're much obliged to you, as far as it goes."
It was only just as he got up to leave that he said the real thing.
When there was one, he always kept it to the last.
"Your lease is up here in May, isn't it, Mrs. Stephen?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm going to move over that Beaman house next month, as soon as the
around settles. I thought it might suit you, perhaps, to come and live
in it. It would be handier about a good many things than it is now.
Stephen might do something to his piece, in a way of small farming.
I'd let him have the rent for three years. You can talk it over."
He turned round and walked right out. Nobody thanked him or said a
word. We were too much surprised.
Mother spoke first; after we had hushed up Stephen, who shouted.
I shall call her "mother," now; for it always seems as if that were a
woman's real name among her children.
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