"It's nice to have money come to us in our old age," said Mrs. Gribble,
timidly, as they sat at tea. "It takes a load off my mind."

"Old age!" said her husband, disagreeably. "What d'ye mean by old age?
I'm fifty-two, and feel as young as ever I did."

"You look as young as ever you did," said the docile Mrs. Gribble. "I
can't see no change in you. At least, not to speak of."

"Not so much talk," said her husband. "When I want your opinion of my
looks I'll ask you for it. When do you start getting this money?"

"Tuesday week; first of May," replied his wife. "The lawyers are going
to send it by registered letter."

Mr. Gribble grunted.

"I shall be sorry to leave the house for some things," said his wife,
looking round. "We've been here a good many years now, Henry."

"Leave the house!" repeated Mr. Gribble, putting down his tea-cup and
staring at her.

"Leave the house! What are you talking about?"

"But we can't stay here, Henry," faltered Mrs. Gribble. "Not with all
that money. They are building some beautiful houses in Charlton Grove
now--bathroom, tiled hearths, and beautiful stained glass in the front
door; and all for twenty-eight pounds a year."