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.
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