But she'd shoved it back in my suit-case again and said she didn't want it. I'd made her keep it, though. Said to put it in the stove if she had no other use for it—kind of as if I was offended, and she'd shrugged and stuck it up careless on the mantel, and gone off about her work.
"Ever been to Boston?" I inquired now, an idea slowly formin' in the back of my brain.
She shook her head.
"The fare ain't much to Boston," I said, "and I know a place down there where you can sleep for a dollar a night. I believe you could stay for two or three days and still have enough left of your fifteen dollars for the rat-poison," I kind of laughed, "which I bet you wouldn't have any use for after seein' the crowds and theaters, and things in Boston, and eatin' food somebody else raised and cooked beside yourself, in restaurants I can give you the names of."
"And who do you think," asked Isabel, scathin' and scornful, "would be here, lookin' out that Gram didn't wander down in the swamp and get stuck, the way she has twice; and seein' Gramp didn't go out and hoe in his night-shirt, and go to bed in his overalls; and feedin' the hens; and milkin' the cow? You talk nonsense!"
