Mrs. Crowfield took the tongs and altered the disposition of a stick.
“My dear,” I said, “I do wish you’d let the fire alone,—you always put it out.”
“I was merely admitting a little air between the sticks,” said my wife.
“You always make matters worse, when you touch the fire.”
As if in contradiction, a bright tongue of flame darted up between the sticks, and the fire began chattering and snapping defiance at me. Now, if there’s anything which would provoke a saint, it is to be jeered and snapped at in that way by a man’s own fire. It’s an unbearable impertinence. I threw out my leg impatiently, and hit Rover, who yelped a yelp that finished the upset of my nerves. I gave him a hearty kick, that he might have something to yelp for, and in the movement upset Jennie’s embroidery-basket.
“Oh, papa!”
“Confound your baskets and balls! they are everywhere, so that a man can’t move; useless, wasteful things, too.”
“Wasteful?” said Jennie, coloring indignantly; for if there’s anything Jennie piques herself upon, it’s economy.
“Yes, wasteful,—wasting time and money both. Here are hundreds of shivering poor to be clothed, and Christian females sit and do nothing but crochet worsted into useless knicknacks. If they would be working for the poor, there would be some sense in it. But it’s all just alike, no real Christianity in the world, nothing but organized selfishness and self-indulgence.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Crowfield, “you are not well to-night. Things are not quite so desperate as they appear. You haven’t got over Christmas-week.”