Tappelmine sprang up, and exclaimed fiercely,
“What for?”
“’Cause—’cause you’ve made ’em, I reckon, Jerry,” answered Mrs. Tappelmine with some difficulty, occasioned by some choking sobs which nearly took exclusive possession of her. “You know, Jerry, I don’t say it to complain—complainin’ never seems to bring one any good to a woman like me; but—if you only knowed how folks look at me in—in stores, an’ everywhere else, you—wouldn’t blame me for not likin’ it. I didn’t ever do anything to bring it about, unless ’twas in marryin’ you, and I ain’t sorry I did that; but I wish I didn’t ever have to see anybody again, if you’re goin’ to keep on drinkin’.”
The sick man fell back and was silent; his wife threw herself beside him, crying,
“Don’t get mad at me, Jerry; God knows it’s the deadest truth.”
After a moment or two Tappelmine laid a hand on his wife’s cheek, where it had not been before for twenty years; once its touch had brought blushes; now, tears hurried down to meet it, and yet Mrs. Tappelmine was happier than when she had been a pretty Kentucky girl, twenty years before.
“Mariar,” said Tappelmine at last, “I’ve dragged you all down.”
“No, you haven’t, Jerry,” asserted Mrs. Tappelmine, with a lie which she could not avoid.
“If dyin’ll help you up again, I’m willin’,” continued Tappelmine.