"Ah, but you can't imagine what it is," said the boy, leaning forward, his wide-open bright grey eyes full of eagerness. "It has been worse since we dined at Sir Simon's; that called up to mamma all the old forfeited prosperity. The grumbling never ceases; the lamentation's dreadful. We can't make ourselves rich, if we are not rich, so where's the use of groaning over it? It drives me wild."
"Hush, George."
"But I can't hush. Mamma is so ungrateful. There's poor Mary slaving in that school, never coming up for the holidays; and here's——"
"George, I'll not hear this. Your mother's trials are very great."
"There's an awful bother about the Christmas bills," went on George, paying slight attention to the reproof. "I wish you'd come down and talk with her."
"I! My talking might do more harm than good."
"You might try to smooth things a little—get her to look at troubles in a different light. Won't you? I can tell you it is miserable for me."
"Well, I'll see. Go on with your Greek now."
Mr. Henry, ever ready to do good where it was to be done—to throw oil on troubled waters—went down that evening to Mrs. Paradyne's. His interference was not received graciously. Mrs. Paradyne invited him to an opposite chair, and talked at him from the sofa.
"I should like to know what business it is of Mr. Henry's," she exclaimed, her cold resentful manner in full play. And of course he could not reply that it was any business of his; but he spoke of the trouble it was causing that fine boy, George; he spoke a little of the sad past, he spoke cheerily of a future that should be brighter. Mrs. Paradyne was often in a grumbling mood, but never in a worse than that evening.