that had come in the rural mail delivery). She had been out in the fields overseeing the transplanting of young tomato seedlings from hotbed to field. She wore an old gray sweater buttoned up tight, for the air was still sharp. On her head was a battered black felt soft hat (an old one of Dirk’s) much like the one she had worn to the Haymarket that day ten years ago. Selina’s cheeks were faintly pink from her walk across the fields in the brisk morning air.
She sniffed. “That coffee smells wonderful. I think I’ just” She poured herself a half cup with the air of virtue worn by one who really longs for a whole cup and doesn’t take it.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “the expense”
“Pigs,” said Selina, serenely.
“Pigs!” He looked around, bewildered; stared at his mother.
“Pigs’ll do it,” Selina explained, calmly. “I’ve been wanting to put them in for three or four years. It’s August Hempel’s idea. Hogs, I should have said.”
Again, as before, he echoed, “Hogs!” rather faintly.
“High-bred hogs. They’re worth their weight in silver this minute, and “will be for years to come. I won't go in for them extensively. Just enough to make an architect out of Mr. Dirk DeJong.” Then, at the expression in his face: “Don’t look so pained, son. There's nothing revolting about a hog—not my kind, brought up in a pen as sanitary as a tiled bathroom and fed on corn. He’s a handsome, impressive-
