"
"That is no excuse for neglecting me," said Mr. Gribble. "Of course
people die when they are old. Is that the one that got on and made
money?"
His wife, apparently struggling to repress a little excitement, nodded.
"He--he's left me two hundred pounds a year for life, Henry," she said,
dabbing at her pale blue eyes with a handkerchief. "They're going to
pay it monthly; sixteen pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a month.
That's how he left it."
"Two hund--" began Mr. Gribble, forgetting himself. "Two hun----Go and
get my tea! If you think you're going to give yourself airs because
your uncle's left you money, you won't do it in my house."
He took a chair by the window, and, while his wife busied herself in the
kitchen, sat gazing in blank delight at the little street. Two hundred
a year! It was all he could do to resume his wonted expression as his
wife re-entered the room and began to lay the table. His manner,
however, when she let a cup and saucer slip from her trembling fingers
to smash on the floor left nothing to be desired.
"It's nice to have money come to us in our old age," said Mrs. Gribble,
timidly, as they sat at tea.
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