"Oh, Matthew! Don't say that! Please don't!" sobbed his wife. "I can't bear it—it breaks my heart and I have no time to cry!"
She meant that the blinding tears hindered her from working, and made her eyes ache and smart, so that she had great difficulty in seeing to do the fine sewing and stitching which was to win their daily bread. It was a touching lament—the poor have very frequently no time for tears.
"Forgive me," murmured her husband. "I shall be better soon, 'please God,' as old Marshall would say."
Mrs. Reardon tried to return his smile, and then, by way of changing the conversation, asked Bessie what book it was that Mr. Marshall had promised to give her, and of which she was always talking.
"It's called 'The Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Bessie.
"What's it all about?" asked her father.
"We haven't read it all by a great deal yet, father. It's a wonderful book! It was made by one of those men who go about the streets mending old pots and kettles."
"Oh, Bessie!" exclaimed Polly.
"Teacher said so," replied the child, decidedly, "If he did not make it, he dreamt it, which is all the same."
"Never mind how it was made," said her father.