The eye-brows of his wife lifted in wonder. After all, she was glad of the news. It would have been too bad to have Enos upset.
He ate in silence while she chatted volubly of her outing, not remarking his lack of attention.
“Through?” he asked, as Martha rolled her napkin and sat back.
“All through,” she smiled.
“Well, I ain’t,” said the man, leaning forward, his eyes stern and reproachful. “Nor you, neither. We’ve a bit of dessert to chew on, Martha Matchett. I told you I hadn’t seen a bill against me. I’ve seen one against you, an’ I’ve paid it! Yes, marm. Paid it! Here!” he thrust the paper at her.
“Dear God!” moaned the woman, after a lightning glimpse. “It’s come on to me at last. Oh! Enos, husband, don’t look so at me. It was for Cousin Minna’s weddin’—four years ago;—I wanted to go. I didn’t have no dress, nor fixin’s. You was away. I went to Mr. Morley’s store an’ had ’em charged. He said I could pay when I had the money. I’ve never had it. The dress I’ve never worn since. I—I hid it away till I could pay for it, Enos—oh, dear, oh, dear.”
She sobbed, piteously, staring wildly at him through her tears.
“An’—you—paid—it,” came her horrified gasps. “Every—cent—we had.”
“You can attend to the rent, Martha,” the voice of Enos was unmoved as he arose. “I’m goin’ to rake lawns.”
He went out without another word or look, leaving her weeping and rocking to and fro.