Holloway.

"You know what it means, dear? We shall have to live more carefully."

"Oh yes, of course I know that."

"Do you mind?"

"Mind?" She didn't know what he was talking about, but she gave a sad,
foreboding glance at the well-appointed supper-table, where coffee and
mutton-chops had succeeded cocoa. For Arthur had had a rise of salary that
year; and if Aggie had a weakness, it was that she loved to get him plenty
of nice, nourishing things to eat.

"We sha'n't be able to have quite so many nice things for supper. Shall
_you_ mind?"

"Of course I sha'n't. Do you take me for a pig?" said Arthur, gayly. He
hadn't thought of it in that light. Wasn't he always saying that it was
the immaterial that mattered? But it had just come over him that pretty
Aggie wouldn't have so many pretty clothes to wear, because, of course,
whatever money they could save must go to the buying of books and the
maintenance of the intellectual life. For the home atmosphere was to be
part of the children's education.

"We will have lots of nice things," said Aggie, "won't we, when Daddy's
ship comes home?"

VI

Daddy's ship never did come home.

"Quack, quack!" said Aggie, and three shrill voices echoed her.

Aggie had to be the duck herself now; for Daddy had long ago given up his
part in the spirited drama.

They had been married six years, and Aggie had had six children. There was
Arty and Catty and Willie and Dick and Emmy (the baby of the year); and a
memory like a sword in her mother's heart, which was all that was left of
little Barbara, who had come after Catty.

It seemed as if there was not much left of Aggie, either. Her delicate
individuality had shown signs of perishing as the babies came, and the
faster it perished the faster they took its place. At each coming there
went some part of pretty Aggie's prettiness; first the rose from her
cheeks, then the gold from her hair, till none of her radiance was left
but the blue light of her eyes, and that was fainter. Then, after
Barbara's death, her strength went, too; and now, at the end of the day
she was too tired to do anything but lie on the sofa and let the children
crawl all over her, moaning sometimes when they trampled deep. Then Arthur
would stir in his arm-chair and look irritably at her. He still loved
Aggie and the children, but not their noises.

The evenings, once prolonged by gas-light and enthusiasm to a glorious
life, had shrank to a two hours