Motherwell knew at one glance that Tom would
learn no good from her--she was such a flighty looking
thing! Flowers on the under side of her hat!
So poor Tom grew up a clod of the valley. Yet Mrs.
Motherwell would tell you, "Our Tom'll be the richest
man in these parts. He'll get every cent we have and all
the land, too; and I guess there won't be many that can
afford to turn up their noses at our Tom. And, mind ye,
Tom can tell a horse as well as the next one, and he's
a boy that won't waste nothin', not like some we know.
Look at them Slaters now! Fred and George have been off
to college two years, big over-grown hulks they are, and
young Peter is going to the Agricultural College in Guelph
this winter, and the old man will hire a man to take care
of the stock, and him with three boys of his own. Just
as if a boy can learn about farmin' at a college! and
the way them girls dress, and the old lady, too, and her
not able to speak above a whisper. The old lady wears an
ostrich feather in her bonnet, and they're a terrible
costly thing, I hear. Mind you they only keep six cows,
and they send every drop they don't use to the creamery.
Everybody can do as they like, I suppose, but I know
they'll go to the wall, and they deserve it too!"
And yet!
She and Mrs. Slater had been girls together and sat in
school with arms entwined and wove romances of the future,
rosy-hued and golden. When they consulted the oracle of
"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man,
beggar man, thief," the buttons on her gray winsey dress
had declared in favour of the "rich man.
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