“Give him one more, Josy,” cried I, pitying him, for he had really a victory to win. “Let this one little mistake be thrown from the balance.”
“Be it so,” said she, “but let this be the last. I grant no more grace, Mr. Edwin Bettyman; remember the warning in time.”
Once I saved him, while Isabel and his wife were busy in the parlor covering picture frames. The pantry door stood open, he glanced in and could not resist the temptation and entered. I heard him rummaging about in there, among dishes, plates, and finally the tins began to rattle. Suddenly he appeared, with a cake pan in one hand and a cheese mould in the other. Taking me at the moment for Josy, he commenced, “I have rubbed my finger around the inside of these pans, my dear, and—”
I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the parlor. He started, and thrusting his burdens into my hand ran down the steps, saying “don’t betray me, Ellen, the week is almost out.” I replaced the things silently, and returned to my companions. They were just congratulating themselves upon Edwin’s forbearance until then.
“We shall see, what we shall see,” thought I, taking up some muslin, and busying myself with a beautiful painting on copper, destined to ornament Josephine’s pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took such pains to beautify this chosen “sanctum” of hers that I could almost have prayed for his triumph over this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for a failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be looked upon generally as an unkind husband, when in all other respects he was so considerate for the comfort and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was, and knowing this “general” opinion, his kind cousin determined to cure him of its cause.
Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this one day were but over. Edwin jested with his wife upon her being obliged to retain her basket of keys “nolens volens,” for he contended that it was but a ruse to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking after all. He felt sure of his triumph now, for “of course I shall not forget myself within these few hours.”
“Tant mieux,” said Josephine, and rattling a bunch of keys at his ears she bade him begone, “lest,” added she, “the spell be broken at sight of some old duster lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle.”
“Ay, do begone,” continued Isabel declaimingly, “for as
‘Heat and cold, and wind, and steam,
Moisture and mildew, mice, worms and swarming flies,