“But, Hattie, money isn’t everything, dear,” remonstrated her husband gently. “We had friends, and good friends, before.”
“Yes; but you wait and see what kind of friends we have now!”
“But we can’t keep up with such people, dear, on our income; and—”
“Ma, here’s a man. I guess he wants—somebody.” It was a husky whisper from Benny.
James Blaisdell stopped abruptly. Bessie Blaisdell and the little dressmaker cocked their heads interestedly. Mrs. Blaisdell rose to her feet and advanced toward the steps to meet the man coming up the walk.
He was a tall, rather slender man, with a close-cropped, sandy beard, and an air of diffidence and apology. As he took off his hat and came nearer, it was seen that his eyes were blue and friendly, and that his hair was reddish-brown, and rather scanty on top of his head.
“I am looking for Mr. Blaisdell—Mr. James Blaisdell,” he murmured hesitatingly.
Something in the stranger’s deferential manner sent a warm glow of importance to the woman’s heart. Mrs. Blaisdell was suddenly reminded that she was Mrs. James D. Blaisdell of the West Side.
“I am Mrs. Blaisdell,” she replied a bit pompously. “What can we do for you, my good man?” She swelled again, half unconsciously. She had never called a person “my good man” before. She rather liked the experience.
The man on the steps coughed slightly behind his hand—a sudden spasmodic little cough. Then very gravely he reached into his pocket and produced a letter.