in Sarah's charge, if you'll allow me to
say so, my dear, I consider your sister Sarah the biggest goose of a
female it has ever been my lot to run across."

"Ah, but you don't really know Sarah yet," said Polly, and smiled a
little, through the tears that had ripen to her eyes at the tale of
John's despair.

What Mahony did not mention to her was the necessity he had been under
of borrowing money; though Polly was aware he had left home with but a
modest sum in his purse. He wished to spare her feelings. Polly had a
curious delicacy--he might almost call it a manly delicacy--with regard
to money; and the fact that John had not offered to put hand to pocket;
let alone liberally flung a blank cheque at his head, would, Mahony
knew, touch his wife on a tender spot. Nor did Polly herself ask
questions. Richard made no allusion to John having volunteered to bear
expenses, so the latter had evidently not done so. What a pity! Richard
was so particular himself, in matters of this kind, that he might write
her brother down close and stingy. Of course John's distressed state of
mind partly served to excuse him. But she could not imagine the
calamity that would cause Richard to forget his obligations.

She slid her hand into her husband's and they sat for a while in
silence. Then, half to herself, and out of a very different train of
thought she said: "Just fancy them never crying once for their mother."

* * * * *

"Talking of friends," said Sarah, and fastidiously cleared her throat.
"Talking of friends, I wonder now what has become of one of those young
gentlemen I met at your wedding. He was ... let me see ... why, I
declare if I haven't forgotten his name!"

"Oh, I know who you mean--besides there was only one, Sarah," Mahony
heard his wife reply, and therewith fall into her sister's trap. "You
mean Purdy--Purdy Smith--who was Richard's best man."

"Smith?" echoed Sarah. "La, Polly! Why don't he make it Smythe?"

It was a warm evening some three weeks later. The store was closed to
customers; but Mahony had ensconced himself in a corner of it with a
book: since the invasion, this was the one place in which he could make
sure of finding quiet. The sisters sat on the log-bench before the
house; and, without seeing them, Mahony knew to a nicety how they were
employed. Polly darned stockings, for John's children; Sarah was
tatting, with her little finger stuck out at right angles to the rest.
Mahony could hardly think