e blackness of darkness. "We shall all go to the poorhouse
together--that's where it will end," he said, as he tossed restlessly in
the dark.

"Oh no, no, my dear," said his wife, with those serene eyes that had
looked through so many gloomy hours; "we must cast our care on God."

"It's easy for women to talk. You don't have the interest money to pay,
you are perfectly reckless of expense. Nothing would do but James must go
to college, and now see what it's bringing us to!"

"Why, father, I thought you yourself were in favor of it."

"Well, I did wrong then. You persuaded me into it. I'd no business to
have listened to you and Jim and got all this load on my shoulders."

Yet Mary Pitkin knew in her own calm, clear head that she had not been
reckless of expense. The yearly interest money was ever before her, and
her own incessant toils had wrought no small portion of what was needed
to pay it. Her butter at the store commanded the very highest price, her
straw braiding sold for a little more than that of any other hand, and
she had calculated all the returns so exactly that she felt sure that the
interest money for that year was safe. She had seen her husband pass
through this nervous crisis many times before, and she had learned to be
blamed in silence, for she was a woman out of whom all selfness had long
since died, leaving only the tender pity of the nurse and the consoler.
Her soul rested on her Saviour, the one ever-present, inseparable friend;
and when it did no good to speak to her husband, she spoke to her God for
him, and so was peaceful and peace-giving.

Even her husband himself felt her strengthening, rest-giving power, and
for this reason he bore down on her with the burden of all his tremors and
his cares; for while he disputed, he yet believed her, and rested upon
her with an utter helpless trust, as the good angel of his house. Had
_she_ for a moment given way to apprehension, had _her_ step been a
thought less firm, her eye less peaceful, then indeed the world itself
would have seemed to be sinking under his feet. Meanwhile she was to him
that kind of relief which we derive from a person to whom we may say
everything without a fear of its harming them. He felt quite sure that,
say what he would, Mary would always be hopeful and courageous; and he
felt some secret idea that his own gloomy forebodings were of service in
restricting and sobering what seemed to him her too sanguine nature. He
blindly r