never spends a cent for grog."

"Yes, Morton, I know. Poor father! it's too bad, when he works so hard
for us!" and for the first time tears trembled on her eyelashes. Then,
dashing them bravely away, "Well, what's done can't be undone. O baby,
baby! if you knew the mischief your bits of hands have done!" holding
them up, and spatting them gently together till he crowed with delight.
"But come, Molly dear, where are those nice fried potatoes we're to have
for supper? 'There's no use in crying for spilt milk,' you know."

Molly gave a last sob, then looked up with the sun breaking through her
tears. "Burnt money's worse'n spilt milk, Sara; but I'll tell you what,
when the coddies are all gone, I'll go lobster-catching, can't I? It's
awful fun!"

There were few circumstances in life out of which Molly could not
extract "fun" in some shape. Indeed, in less than five minutes she was
laughing gayly, and caricaturing the whole scene just passed, from the
baby's wilfulness, to Sara's shriek of dismay and rush for the burning
greenbacks.

Sara, oppressed with care and forebodings as she was, could not help
smiling, and the smile seemed to ease her of her burden just a trifle.
"Well, we haven't come to want yet, thank God!" she thought hopefully.

Not want as they knew it, though the most of us might consider them
little short of it. There were still herring, "coddies," and potatoes in
store, and some groceries, while the pile of wood back of the shed was
large for that village. Then, too, summer was near, when their needs
would be fewer. To be sure, the new dresses must be given up, but they