Bindle said nothing. The musical-box had been left to Mrs. Bindle by "poor Aunt Anne"—Mrs. Bindle referred to all dead relatives as "poor"; it was her one unconscious blasphemy. Dumb Abraham, as Bindle called the relic, had always been the most sacred among Mrs. Bindle's household gods. It had arrived dumb, and dumb it had remained, as she would never hear of it leaving the house to be put in order.
If Bindle ever went into the parlour after dark, he was always told to be careful of Aunt Anne's musical box. Many a battle had been waged over its dumb ugliness. Once he had rested for a moment upon its glassy surface a half-smoked cigar, a thoughtless act which had resulted in one of the stormiest passages of their married life.
"Well!" challenged Mrs. Bindle, as he remained silent.
"I didn't say anythink," he mumbled, picking up his cap and making for the door, thankful that it was Saturday, and that he would be home in time to see his beloved niece.
That afternoon Bindle arrived home with his pockets bulging, and several parcels of varying sizes under his arm.
"What have you got there?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, who was occupied in spreading a white cloth upon the kitchen table.
"Oh! jest a few things for 'is Nibs," was the response.
"For who?"
"The nipper," he explained, as he proceeded to unburden himself of the parcels, laying them on the dresser.
"I wish you'd try and talk like a Christian," and she banged a metal tea-tray upon the table.