“I mean to go see them, mother,” he said.

“You’ll regret it, Richard. The woman is not respectable.”

“She won’t bite me!”

“There’s worse than biting. The Bible says the sins of the fathers are visited on the children.”

“The Bible! If the Bible says what’s not right, are we to do it?”

“Richard! I’ll have no such word spoken again in my house!” exclaimed his mother.

“Are you going to turn me out, mother, because I say we shouldn’t do what is wrong, no matter who tells us to?”

“No, Richard. You said the Bible said what was wrong, and that’s blasphemy!”

“All right, mother. Then tell me where Arthur and Alice have gone. I want to go see them.”

“I don’t know. I took care not to know so I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“But why?”

“Never mind why. I don’t know where they are, and couldn’t tell you if I would.”

Richard turned angrily away, and went to his room, weary and annoyed.

In the morning his mother said to him—

“Richard, I can’t bear there should be any misunderstanding between you and me! The moment you are twenty-one, ask me and I will tell you everything. Believe me, I was right to stop it, for fear of what might follow.”

“If you are afraid of my falling in love with a girl you don’t think good enough for me, you have taken the wrong way to keep me from thinking about her.”

Richard’s wrong to his mother was a lack of faith in her. Where he did not understand and she would not explain, he did not give her the benefit of the doubt. He treated her just as many of us, calling ourselves Christians, treat the Father—not in words perhaps, but in feeling and actions.

At last Jane burst into tears. “You will be sorry for this one day, Richard,” she sobbed. “Whatever I do is from love for you.”

“How can it be good to me to wrong another for my sake?”

“Trust me, Richard. My own father is a blacksmith. I certainly would not look down on a dressmaker.”

Richard looked at her moodily for a moment, then turned away and went to the workshop.

— Seven —

Mortgrange

In the spring a letter came from young Lestrange, through Simon Armour, asking Richard upon what terms he would undertake the work needed in the library.

He handed the letter to John and they held a consultation.

“There’s this to consider,” said the bookbinder. “If you go there for any length of time, you lose your connection here—in a measure at least—to the shop. So you couldn’t charge the same, not having all the tools and advantages as working here.”

“On the other hand, I should have my living expenses paid in addition.”

“That is true, and of course that is something. We’ll have to find out what the best hands in the trade get for such work.”

“I’m afraid that, not knowing the finer points of the work, they will think I don’t do enough, or charged them too much.”