"Want me to build on it?" he asked in reply, with a quizzical smile. 

 "I guess we can get along here for a while." 

 This was at night. In the morning Mrs. Lapham said-- 

 "I suppose we ought to do the best we can for the children, in every way." 

 "I supposed we always had," replied her husband. 

 "Yes, we have, according to our light." 

 "Have you got some new light?" 

 "I don't know as it's light. But if the girls are going to keep on living in Boston and marry here, I presume we ought to try to get them into society, some way; or ought to do something." 

 "Well, who's ever done more for their children than we have?" demanded Lapham, with a pang at the thought that he could possibly have been out-done. "Don't they have everything they want? Don't they dress just as you say? Don't you go everywhere with 'em? Is there ever anything going on that's worth while that they don't see it or hear it? I don't know what you mean. Why don't you get them into society? There's money enough!" 

 "There's got to be something besides money, I guess," said Mrs. Lapham, with a hopeless sigh.  "I presume we didn't go to work just the right way about their schooling. We ought to have got them into some school where they'd have got acquainted with city girls--girls who could help them along." 

 "Nearly everybody at Miss Smillie's was from some where else." 

 "Well, it's pretty late to think about that now," grumbled Lapham. 

 "And we've always gone our own way, and not looked out for the future. We ought to have gone out more, and had people come to the house. Nobody comes." 

 "Well, is that my fault? I guess nobody ever makes people welcomer." 

 "We ought to have invited company more." 

 "Why don't you do it now? If it's for the girls, I don't care if you have the house full all the while." 

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