of which he was
ashamed; and the foolish things that Deborah had done were no worse than
those of which he had been guilty. So he called on her, and they talked it
over and made honest confessions that are good for the soul. The potter
disappeared--no one knew where--some said he was dead, but Benjamin and
Deborah did not wear mourning. They took rumor's word for it, and thanked
God, and went to a church and were married.

Deborah brought to the firm a very small dowry; and Benjamin contributed a
bright baby boy, aged two years, captured no one knows just where. This
boy was William Franklin, who grew up into a very excellent man, and the
worst that can be said of him is that he became Governor of New Jersey. He
loved and respected his father, and called Deborah mother, and loved her
very much. And she was worthy of all love, and ever treated him with
tenderness and gentlest considerate care. Possibly a blot on the
'scutcheon may, in the working of God's providence, not always be a dire
misfortune, for it sometimes has the effect of binding broken hearts as
nothing else can, as a cicatrice toughens the fiber.

Deborah had not much education, but she had good, sturdy commonsense,
which is better if you are forced to make choice. She set herself to help
her husband in every way possible, and so far as I know, never sighed for
one of those things you call "a career." She even worked in the
printing-office, folding, stitching, and doing up bundles.

Long years afterward, when Franklin was Ambassador of the American
Colonies in France, he told with pride that the clothes he wore were spun,
woven, cut out, and made into garments--all by his wife's own hands.
Franklin's love for Deborah was very steadfast. Together they became rich
and respected, won world-wide fame, and honors came that way such as no
American before or since has ever received.

And when I say, "God bless all good women who help men do their work," I
simply repeat the words once used by Benjamin Franklin when he had Deborah
in mind.

* * * * *

When Franklin was forty-two, he had accumulated a fortune of seventy-five
thousand dollars. It gave him an income of about four thousand dollars a
year, which he said was all he wanted; so he sold out his business,
intending to devote his entire energies to the study of science and
languages. He had lived just one-half his days; and had he then passed
out, his life could have been