"But if my mind is set upon it, you'll let me go, won't you, uncle?"

"I suppose I must," said Job Stanton. "A wilful lad must have his
way. But you mustn't blame me if things turn out unlucky."

"No, I shall only blame myself."

"There's one promise you must make me," said his uncle.

"What is that?"

"Take a week to consider whether you hadn't better take my advice
and stay at home."

"Yes, uncle, I'll promise that."

"And you'll think it over in all its bearin's?"

"Yes, uncle."

"It ain't best to take any important step without reflection, Ben."
"You're right, uncle."

This conversation took place in Job Stanton's little shoe-shop, only
a rod distant from the small, plain house which he had occupied ever
since he had been married. It was interrupted by the appearance of a
pretty girl of fourteen, who, presenting herself at the door of the
shop, called out:

"Supper's ready, father."