Mrs. Gribble, with her hand to her heart, tottered to the sofa and lay
there with her eyes closed.

"I had to get some dress material," she said, in a quavering voice.
"You want me to go out, and I'm so shabby I'm ashamed to be seen."

Mr. Gribble made muffled noises in his throat; then, afraid to trust
himself, he went into the back-yard and, taking a seat on an upturned
bucket, sat with his head in his hands peering into the future.

The dressmaker's bill and a bill for a new hat came after the next
monthly payment; and a bill for shoes came a week later. Hoping much
from the well-known curative effects of fine feathers, he managed to
treat the affair with dignified silence. The only time he allowed full
play to his feelings Mrs. Gribble took to her bed for two days, and the
doctor had a heart-to-heart talk with him on the doorstep.

It was a matter of great annoyance to him that his wife still continued
to attribute her ill-health to the smallness and darkness of the house;
and the fact that there were only two of the houses in Charlton Grove
left caused a marked depression of spirits. It was clear that she was
fretting. The small servant went further, and said that 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