“She said I ought to go to the poor-house.”
“Who?” shouted John, rising angrily.
“Mrs. Morrell, who brought the meat.”
John flung the bowl and its contents out of the window. Betsy was awed. She had never seen him like that.
“John!” she coaxed softly.
“That’s what Miller told me. God! Said I wasn’t worth nothing to work no more. I’ll show ’em—I’ll show ’em!”
But he didn’t show them—he could not. Age had come at last, and at last he knew this. He earned nothing—and their hunger went on.
And, one evening, Betsy timidly resumed the hated subject.
“I’ve been thinking about it, John, dear, and she meant it very kind. It is warm there, John, and there is plenty of food. John—”
“My God, Betsy, do you want to go—live on charity—do you at last want to leave me—and live on charity—do you want to separate after sixty years—and live on charity?—Oh, my God!”