It was her impracticalness, her delightful dependence, that finally brought Harry to the point of serious thought. What would she do, if anything happened to him? Her father had been successful but improvident: he would leave hardly enough for her mother alone to live in modest comfort; and, besides, Harry was not the kind of youth to put his responsibilities on another. He began to think seriously about cutting expenses and putting something aside, even at this early day. The really successful men had begun at the beginning to do this. Then there came to his notice the sad case of Mrs. Baird, who was left with nothing but a baby. Baird had been a young man of excellent promise and a good income, but he had left his widow destitute. He had put nothing aside, intending, doubtless, to begin that later.
“Just like me,” thought Harry, as he looked at his girl-wife across the table.
“Isn’t it frightful?” she asked, referring to the little tragedy contained in the item he had just read to her from the morning paper. “Every one thought the Bairds were so prosperous, too.”
“Every one thinks we are prosperous,” he commented thoughtfully.
“Oh, that’s different!” she exclaimed. “You mustn’t talk like that or you’ll make me gloomy for the whole day! Why, it sounds as if you were expecting to die!”
“Not at all,” he replied, “but neither was Baird.”
“Please don’t!” she pleaded. “I shan’t have another happy minute—until I’ve forgotten what you said.”
He laughed at the ingenuousness of this and blew her a kiss across the table; but he did not abandon the subject.
“Baird was a young man,” he persisted, “but, with a little care and forethought, he could have left things in fair shape.”
“Perhaps we ought to be saving a little,” she admitted in a tone of whimsical protest. “I’ll help you do it, if you just won’t make me blue.”