u with money, and we should be poorer than ever."

"I'm ashamed to be seen out," said Mrs. Gribble.

"A woman's place is the home," said Mr. Gribble; "and so long as I'm
satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters. So long as I am
pleased, that's everything. What do you want to go dressing yourself up
for? Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman."

"What are we going to do with all that money, then?" inquired Mrs.
Gribble, in trembling tones.

"That'll do," said Mr. Gribble, decidedly. "That'll do. One o' these
days you'll go too far. You start throwing that money in my teeth and
see what happens. I've done my best for you all these years, and
there's no reason to suppose I sha'n't go on doing so. What did you
say? What!"

Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror. "I--I
said--it was my money," she stammered.

Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her. Then,
kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the
passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of
fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the
Grafton Arms.

It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife
laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in
the slightest degree. In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from
the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair. He took the
stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of
smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.

"Uncle George dead," he said, at last, shaking his head. "Hadn't
pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man."

He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.

"He was a teetotaller," she remarked, casually.

"He was tee-toiler," repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. "Good
man. Uncle George dead-tee-toller."

Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.

"Bed-time," said Mr. Gribble, and led the way upstairs, singing.

His good-humour had evaporated by the morning, and, having made a light
breakfast of five cups of tea, he went off, with lagging steps, to work.
It was a beautiful spring morning, and the idea of a man with two
hundred a year and a headache going off to a warehouse instead of a
day's outing seemed to border upon the absurd. What use was money
without freedom? His toil was sweetened that day by the knowledge that
he could drop it any time he