THE LOAN.
It was past ten o'clock and the maid was, or should have been, asleep, so when there came a knock at the front-door Bertha got up to answer it herself.
"Whoever can it be at this time of night?" I said.
"It's Evelyn come to borrow again," said Bertha. "I know her knock."
"Don't always look on the dark side of things," I counselled; "be an optimist like me. Now I have a feeling that she has come to pay back what they borrowed last week."
A minute later Bertha returned. "I knew it," she said; "it is as I feared. Jack has sent her over to borrow three more."
"Three more!" I gasped; "but it's preposterous. They borrowed five only last Monday and they'll never pay them back, of course. What did you say to her?"
"I said I couldn't manage it myself, but I would ask you."
"I suppose we shall have to do it," I said, crossing over to the bureau and unlocking it.
"Haven't you got any on you?" asked Bertha.
"Only one; I never carry more than that in case I might get my pockets picked. It's a bit thick," I continued, "we economise and deny ourselves in all kinds of ways and then that spend-thrift comes—or, rather, sends his wife—and borrows all our hard-earned savings."
From a secret drawer in the bureau I drew forth a small box that I opened with fingers that trembled like Gaspard's.
Bertha joined me and, side by side, we stood gazing at the contents in a hush that was akin to worship.
"Well," said I, at last breaking the silence, "here you are, and for goodness' sake tell her not to waste them!" and into my wife's outstretched hand I carefully counted out—three matches.