“I know that very well, mother. It was an unlucky day when you married that old skinflint.”
“Don’t call him that, Grant,” said his mother, with an apprehensive look in the direction of the door.
“He’s all that, and more if possible. When did he give you any money last?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“And how much did he give you at that time?”
“Twenty-five cents.”
“What a shame! Why, if you had hired out as his housekeeper he would have been compelled to give you more.”
“Yes, Grant,” sighed Mrs. Tarbox, “I wish I were his housekeeper instead of his wife. I should be more independent.”
“He made a good bargain when he married you, mother. But I never understood why you married him.”
“I acted for the best, as I thought, Grant. You know how your poor father left us. After his affairs were settled, there were only two hundred and fifty dollars left, and you were but twelve years old. I took in sewing, and earned what I could, but at the end of a year I had used up a hundred dollars of our small capital. Then Mr. Tarbox asked me to marry him, and I agreed, for I thought it would give us a comfortable home.”