natched it up.

"Let me see that!"

Her husband looked as helpless as a sheep. He had lost his pomposity.
"Happy little family!" thought Evan.

Having read it, she threw back her head and laughed in bitter chagrin.
"I thought so!" she cried. "The third time this summer! When is this
going to end? Where's the story?"

"My dear, what's the use?" said her husband tremblingly. "It would
only anger you."

"Be quiet!" she cried. "I will see it. Where is it?" Her eye picked
it out from among the papers on his desk, and she pounced on it. More
harsh and bitter laughter accompanied the reading of it.

"Bought a new suit at an immigrant outfitters! I see he has it on.
Got into a row with a fruit-vendor over a penny change. Rescued by a
young man and taken home. Made his rescuer pay the fares on the
trolley. Oh, this is rich, rich!" she cried, trembling with anger.
"This is the best story yet. This will be meat and drink to the
populace! And this is what they're going to send to the _Social
Register_, to everybody I know. It's enough to make me wish I'd died
before I took the name of Deaves!"

"My dear, we are not alone!" cried George Deaves in a panic.

She threw an indifferent glance at Evan. She thought he was a servant,
and she was of that arrogant type which acts as if servants were
something less than human. "Do you think anything can be hidden in
this house?" she said. "The men-servants are listening at the door."

George Deaves had forgotten about them. He hastened to the door and
sent them downstairs.

Mrs. Deaves addressed her father-in-law. "Well, if you can't control
your avaricious tendencies you'll have to pay," she said. "Send to the
bank and get the money so George can take it to them."

"Pay! Pay! Pay! That's all anybody asks of me!" cried the old man in
a passion. "Five thousand dollars! None of you know what that means.
Money to you is like the winds of Heaven that come and go. But _I_
know what five thousand dollars is. For I have saved it up dollar by
dollar at the cost of my sweat and self-denial. And will I give it up
to these scoundrels, these sewer rats who threaten me? No! I'd as
lief give them my blood!"

Mrs. Deaves' face turned crimson. "You'll pay!" she cried, "or I leave
this house!"

"And where will you go?" sneered the old man. "Back to share your
father's genteel poverty?"

"Who made him poor?" she cried. "Who robbed him?"

George Deaves, with