Ten years of it—ten long, trying, down-hill years, but neither Enos Matchett nor his wife had ever wavered in loyalty or love to their charge. Indeed, the worse things got, the more they thought of Lucianna.
Her daily airing (on the wiry arm of Martha), her whims, her playthings, were all attended to, religiously.
If, as frequently happened, she made a bright remark, her devoted keepers nodded sagely, saying, “She’s gettin’ better.”
As for the expense, whatever their thoughts in secret, both kept a guarded silence. Only this evening had Martha for the first time deprecated the failing of Enos to “blow a dollar for Lucianna.”
He stared at her, curiously, and grunted.
“Pooh!” said he, recklessly. “Got fifteen ahead.”
Martha’s tongue uncurbed at this unseemly boast. Her long nose twitched.
“Ahead!” she snorted. “You stay in my place tomorrow, Enos Matchett. You mind the door for one mornin’ and see how much you’re ahead.”
“All right,” returned Enos, his placid features animating resentfully. “I can spare the time till noon. No need of snappin’ at me as I see. No sense in deprivin’ Lucianna of a little pleasure, neither. There’s nobody pressin’ us hard—said so yourself. What’s a dollar, anyway?”
Alas! to the contempt of Mr. Matchett for the single dollar was due much of their financial tribulation.