"Ah, mother, do stop those insinuations of yours; you know perfectly well nothing will ever come of it."
"Now, Jacob," said Mrs. Worse, with her arms akimbo, "you think yourself very clever, but I tell you you are as stupid as an owl, a barn-door owl, when it is anything to do with women. You ought to see it must all come right some day. I dare say Miss Rachel is a little bit singular, but she is not quite cracked. You see, it will all get straight in the end; it will still all come right some day."
This was the refrain of all Mrs. Worse's observations on this head, and her son saw plainly it was of no use to contradict her. It was of no use either to advise her to give up her shop, or, at any rate, to give up the management to somebody else.
"Why, I should die of dropsy," said she, "and Samuelsen would dry up to nothing in about a fortnight, if we had not got the shop to attend to."
"Yes," suggested Jacob, "but still you need not work any longer: you have earned some rest for your old days; besides, your legs are not so young as they were."
"As to my legs," cried Mrs. Worse, with a gesture of impatience, "my legs are quite good enough for a shop-woman."
"Well, why not get a horse and carriage? You have every right to have one."
"I took a drive once that made stir enough," answered his mother; "I hope to take another some day, but that won't be before everything comes right."
It was no use trying to persuade her, and so she
