“Do,” said Jim, “and mind ye sweep up the hearth, my dear. It do make it look more cheerful.”
The hearth actually was swept up when he entered, and all the children sitting round the table with smooth hair and clean faces and hands.
“If we was to get a door-mat it would keep the place nicer,” Sally observed. “I could train the childern to wipe their feet on’t.”
She announced this fact with the air of one who had made an important discovery, and Jim, delighted with the turn affairs were taking, agreed with alacrity.
“It puts more heart into a man if he finds things is made good use of; but when you go spendin’ an’ spendin’ all what you’ve worked hard for to get, knowin’ they’ll be let fall to pieces for want of a stitch, or else ruined with rust and dirt, you have no pride or pleasure in doin’ anythin’.”
Sally did not answer, but looked penitently at her husband.
After tea, when the children were in bed she came and stood by his chair.
“I hope ye’ll be able to go to work to-morrow,” said she.
“I hope so, I’m sure,” he replied. “’Tis a bad thing when ye come to think on’t, Sally, for the man to be laid by—him as has to earn the money to fill all the little mouths. Wet or dry, sick or well, off he has to go to his work. If a man didn’t do his work reg’lar he’d get turned off pretty quick. The women don’t remember that when they sit idle at home, without ever giving a thought to their husbands’ peace or comfort. Yet, if the husbands wasn’t there, what would become of them all? Did you find it hard work fillin’ that bucket this mornin’, Sally?”
“Terr’ble hard,” said Sally, with a quivering lip.