she was fading
away.

They moved at the September quarter, and a slight, but temporary,
improvement in Mrs. Gribble's health took place. Her cheeks flushed and
her eyes sparkled over new curtains and new linoleum. The tiled
hearths, and stained glass in the front door filled her with a deep and
solemn thankfulness. The only thing that disturbed her was the fact
that Mr. Gribble, to avoid wasting money over necessaries, contrived to
spend an unduly large portion on personal luxuries.

"We ought to have some new things for the kitchen," she said one day.

"No money," said Mr. Gribble, laconically.

"And a mat for the bathroom."

Mr. Gribble got up and went out.

She had to go to him for everything. Two hundred a year and not a penny
she could call her own! She consulted her heart, and that faithful
organ responded with a bound that set her nerves quivering. If she
could only screw her courage to the sticking-point the question would be
settled for once and all.

White and trembling she sat at breakfast on the first of November,
waiting for the postman, while the unconscious Mr. Gribble went on with
his meal. The double-knocks down the road came nearer and nearer, and
Mr. Gribble, wiping his mouth, sat upright with an air of alert and
pleased interest. Rapid steps came to the front door, and a double bang
followed.

"Always punctual," said Mr. Gribble, good-humouredly.

His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the
maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze
encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand.

"After you," he said sharply.

Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope,
peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for
her pocket. She was so pale and shook so much that the words died away
on her husband's lips.

"You--you had better let me take care of that," he said, at last.

"It is--all right," gasped his wife.

She put her hand to her throat and, hardly able to believe in her
victory, sat struggling for breath. Before her, grim and upright, her
husband sat, a figure of helpless smouldering wrath.

"You might lose it," he said, at last. "I sha'n't lose it," said his
wife.

To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through
the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her
left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in