“Oh, don’t look so, dear. You can’t help it,” cried his wife, with a remorseful throb at her unlucky words.
“I sometimes think,” began the minister, then he stopped short.
“Don’t think,” she begged, under her breath; “you had to do it, and it was just lovely of you, Adoniram.” She tried to get up on tiptoe to plant a little kiss between the troubled eyes. Failing of this, she dropped it on the rusty sleeve,—“Don’t, dear.”
“Yes, there was no other place for her to go to, and she was good to Mother.” But the dark eyes were still troubled.
“Yes, it was lovely of you to have her here,” repeated Mrs. Henderson; “so don’t think any more of it, husband,” she implored.
“It’s you who are lovely, Almira,” he said, with a sigh.
“Nonsense; and I shouldn’t have loved you half as much if you hadn’t looked out for your sister,” cried his wife, with spirit; “so don’t let us worry any more about it. Besides, just think of her going away to-morrow!—and two whole weeks, Adoniram!” She drew a long breath, and hugged her husband’s arm tighter.
“Poor Almira!” he said, looking down at her. Then he laughed like a boy, it was so good to think of that to-morrow that Cousin Henry’s invitation would bring about.
“Hush—hush!” said his wife, pinching his arm tighter. “I’m afraid she’ll hear. Well, now, let us think about the Peppers. There isn’t anything we can give them—” she broke off a minute, her gaze caught by a thin place in the study carpet, and she tried to step gingerly over it, guiding the parson askew—“and besides, Mrs. Pepper wouldn’t take it even if we had any money.”
“No, indeed,” said the parson, with decision, “I can’t think of that woman accepting money.”