Seated beside the dining-table there, with her head buried in her arms, sat his little wife. Before her, ranged in line upon the table, stood the silver water-set—her present to him. He was beside her in a moment—leaning over her, his arms about her shoulders.
"Why, honey," he exclaimed, "what on earth—"
At this she only cried the louder. There was no further need for restraint. The old man scratched his head. He was very much distressed.
"Why, honey," he repeated, "tell its old man all about it. Didn't it like the purty pitcher thet its old husband bought for it? Was it too big—or too little—or too heavy for it to tote all the way out here from that high mantel? Why didn't it wake up its lazy ol' man and make him pack it out here for it?"
It was no use. She was crying louder than ever. He did not know what to do. He began to be cold and he saw that she was shivering. There was no fire in the dining-room. He must do something. "Tell its old man what it would 'a' ruther had," he whispered in her ear, "jest tell him, ef it don't like its pitcher—"
At this she made several efforts to speak, her voice breaking in real turkey-gobbler sobs each time, but finally she managed to wail:
"It ain't m-m-m-mi-i-i-ne!"
"Not yours! Why, honey. What can she mean? Did it think I bought it for anybody else? Ain't yours! Well, I like that. Lemme fetch that lamp over here till you read the writin' on the side of it, an' I'll show you whose it is." He brought the lamp.
"Read that, now. Why, honey! Wh—wh—wh—what in thunder an' lightnin'! They've done gone an' reversed it. The fool's put my name first—' Ephraim N. Trimble. From—his—'
"Why, Jerusalem jinger!