roke loose,
an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. To my way o' thinkin', it'd be a
_tie_, an' no thanks to your nose."

"Well, I only follow the plumber's directions. He guarantees his work
and materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface of
anything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. I'm sure you'll be
careful in the future, now I have spoken, and--er--how are you getting
on these days? How are you and your husband and the children?"

"Tolerable, thank you. Sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as much
as usual lately, but I says to him, when he's downhearted-like because
he can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'Say, you ain't fished up much
of anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. You ain't fell in the
river either.' An' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. We
never died a winter yet."

"Dear me, I should think a great, strapping man ought to be able to
support his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by the
day."

"My husband does his best," said Martha with simple dignity. "He does
his best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that."

"O, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, I assure you!"
Mrs. Sherman took her up quickly. "Science teaches us that our
condition in life reflects our character. We get the results of what we
are in our environment. You understand? In other words, each receives
his desert. I hope I am clear? I mean, what he deserves."

Martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "You are perfeckly clear,"
she said reassuringly. "Only I ain't been educated up to seein' things
that way. Seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it,
some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotels
wouldn't have a square meal. It's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em,
_havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, like
my Sammy, out o' a job. But that's neither here nor there. It's all
bound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, I wish livin' wasn't so
high. What with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' as
much as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, it
takes some contrivin' to get along. Not to speak o' potatas twenty-five
cents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em as
if they was fresh from Ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on both
sides."

"But, my good woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, shocked, "what _do_ yo