ouse is good
enough for me," he roared; "and what's good enough for me is good enough
for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want.
Stained glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in,
do you? Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the
work."

Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.

"We're going to live as we've always lived," pursued Mr. Gribble.
"Money ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just
because I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should
end up in the workhouse."

He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared
away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed
in the smoke-pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose
path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of
the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on
summer afternoons.

He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal
finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the
postman. Mrs. Gribble's timid reminders concerning the flight of time
and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped
up suddenly and met the postman at the door.

"Has it come?" inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.

By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the
covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in
his pockets. Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the
clock, and, snatching up his hat, set off down the road.

He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation.
Mrs. Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an
irremediable loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to
her eyes.

"That's no good," said her husband at last; "that won't bring him back."

"Bring who back?" inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.

"Why, your Uncle George," said Mr. Gribble. "That's what you're turning
on the water-cart for, ain't it?"

"I wasn't thinking of him," said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely.
"I was thinking of----"

"Well, you ought to be," interrupted her husband. "He wasn't my uncle,
poor chap, but I've been thinking of him, off and on, all day. That
bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness. I brought it
home as a treat."

"I was thinking of my clothes," said Mrs.