ow-panes made dull smears of the
reflected light. The shade of the lamp was drawn down until the ceiling
of the room was all in shadow save for the bright escape from the
chimney which shone directly overhead, round and yellow as twenty
dollars, and as Peter leaned back in his chair, looking up, it might
have been that resemblance which gave a turn to his thoughts and led him
to say to his mother:

"Why did my father never get rich?"

"I hardly know, Peter. He used to say that he couldn't afford it. There
were so many other things he wished to do; and I wished them, too. When
we were young we did them together. Then your father was the sort of man
who always gave too much and took too little. I remember his saying once
that no one who loved his fellowman very much, _could_ get rich."

"Do you wish he had?"

"I don't know that either. No, not if he was happier the way he was. And
we _were_ happy. Things would have come out all right if it hadn't been
for the accident when the thresher broke, and his being ill so long
afterward. And my people weren't so kind as they might have been. You
see, they always thought him a little queer. Before we were married,
before we were even engaged, he had had a little money. It had been left
him, and instead of investing it as anybody in Bloombury would, he spent
it in travel. I remember his saying that his memories of Italy were the
best investment he could have made. But afterward, when he was in
trouble, they threw it up to him. We had never got in debt before ...
and then just as he was getting round, he took bronchitis and died."

She wiped her eyes quietly for a while, and the kettle on the stove
began to sing soothingly, and presently Peter ventured:

"Do you wish I would get rich?"

"Yes, Peter, I do. We are all like that, I suppose, we grown-ups. Things
we manage to get along without ourselves, we want for our children. I
hope you will be a rich man some day; but, Peter, I don't want you to
think it a reflection on your father that he wasn't. He had what he
thought was best. He might have left me with more money and fewer happy
memories--and that is what women value most, Peter;--the right sort of
women. There are some who can't get along without _things_: clothes, and
furniture, and carriages. Ada Brown is that kind; sometimes I'm afraid
Ellen is a little. She takes after my family."

"It is partly on account of Ellen that I want to get rich."

"You mustn't take it to