She built up the fire, set the teakettle on the back of the stove—he wondered why she did not put it on the front, and why she gradually piled on sticks of wood until there was a roaring blaze that caused him some slight uneasiness. Was she going to set the chimney on fire?
No, she was not; when there was a bed of fiery red coals, she took up her tiny padded holder, lifted off one of the stove covers, then, to his surprise, went into the corner behind him, where he kept his crutches.
What was she going to do? and he uneasily turned his head.
She had both his crutches in her hand—his polished wooden crutches with the gold plate inscription. Years ago, when he resigned his position as bookkeeper at Waysmith and Son's big mill, a gold-headed cane had been presented to him, on which was engraved a flattering inscription. Nothing that had ever been given to him in his life had tickled his vanity as this present from the rich and prosperous firm had done.
When he had been obliged to put away the cane on account of his increasing bodily infirmities, he had had the gold plate inscription transferred to his crutches where he could see it all the time, and have others see it. Now—what was she going to do with those crutches?
"HE LIFTED UP HIS VOICE AND ROARED AT HER."