The chain of the street door was put up, and the shutters securely fastened, and then Aaron and Rachel, hand in hand, went up the dark stairs to their room.
"My dear," said Aaron drowsily a few minutes after he and his wife were in bed, "are you asleep?"
"No, Aaron," murmured Rachel, who was on the borderland of dreams.
"I've been thinking"--he dozed off for a moment or two--"I've been thinking----"
"Yes, my dear?"
"That I wouldn't give Prissy's aunt any flannel petticoats to wash."
Almost before the words had passed his lips sleep claimed him for its own.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
A PROCLAMATION OF WAR.
On Monday morning Aaron commenced business. In the shop window was a display of miscellaneous articles ticketed at low prices, and Aaron took his place behind his counter, ready to dispose of them, ready to argue and bargain, and to advance money on any other articles on which a temporary loan was required. He did not expect a rush of customers, being aware that pawnbroking was a tree of very small beginnings, a seed which needed time before it put forth flourishing branches. The security was sure, the profits accumulative. He was confident of the result. Human necessity, even human frailty, was on his side; all he had to do was to be fair in his dealings.