Love and the Ironmonger

by F. J. Randall

"Never speaks of Christabel—Chrissy, does he?"

Mrs. Gray burst into tears. George sighed, and tried to comfort her by little pats on the shoulder.

"There, there; you mustn't blame him," he said. "It isn't his fault, you know."

Mrs. Gray cried louder, and her little form shook with emotion.

"He—he goes with other girls. I k-know he does!" she cried. "Oh! oh! oh!"

"'Tisn't Jimmy," said George, soothingly. "It's the whisky."

"Oh! oh!" cried Mrs. Gray. "He—he goes with other girls!"

"He doesn't," said George, boldly. "I won't hear it. You shan't blame him. It isn't fair!"

Mrs. Gray grew calmer, but still continued to sob. She was always prepared to back up the opinions of George, whom she held to be a man of excellent qualities, with an idolatrous affection for her husband.

"It isn't fair that you should go against him when he is not to blame," said George. "You should save him from them."