haven’t felt any tightening in your household arrangements. Why, at what a rate were we living?”
“At a careless rate,” said Margaretta, seriously, “a careless, slipshod rate. I bought everything I wanted. Flowers, in spite of our greenhouse, fruit and vegetables out of season, in spite of our garden, but now I look in the shop windows and say with a person I was reading about the other day, ‘Why, how many things there are I can do without,’—and with all my economy I have yet managed to squeeze out something for Grandma. I just made her take it.”
Roger’s face flushed. “Margaretta, if you will keep this thing going, we won’t have to give up this house.”
“I’ll keep it going,” said Margaretta, solemnly, “you shall not leave this house. It would be a blow to your honest pride.”
The young man was deeply moved, and, lifting his face to the pale, rising young moon, he murmured, “Thank God for a good wife.” Then he turned to her. “I wish some other men starting out in life had such a helper as you.”
“Oh, wish them a better one,” said Margaretta, humbly; “but I know what you mean, Roger. A man cannot succeed unless his wife helps him.”
“Sometimes it makes me furious,” said Roger, warmly. “I see fellows down-town, young fellows, too, working early and late, straining every nerve to keep up the extravagance of some thoughtless young wife. Why don’t the women think? Men hate to complain.”
Margaretta hung her head. Then she lifted it, and said, apologetically, “Perhaps they haven’t had wise grandmothers.”
Roger smiled. “Upon my word, a man in choosing a wife ought to look first at the girl’s grandmother.”
“‘My grandma lives on yonder little green,
Fine old lady as ever was seen.’”
chanted a gay voice.
“Bonny,” exclaimed Margaretta, flying out of her seat.
They were a remarkable pair as they came up the gravel walk together—the tall lad and the tall girl, both light-haired, both blue of eyes, and pink, and white, and smooth as to complexion like a pair of babies.
The elder man stared at them admiringly. Bonny was the baby of the orphan family that the sterling old grandmother had brought up. Strange that the grandson of such a woman had so little character, and Roger sighed slightly. Bonny was a mere boy, thoughtless, fond of fun, and too much of a favourite with the gay lads about the town. However, he might develop, and Roger’s face brightened.
“Oh, you dear Bonny,” said Margaretta, pressing his arm, “it was so good in you to remember your promise to come and tell me about your afternoon on the river. You had a pleasant time, of course.”
“Glorious,” said the lad. “The water was like glass, and we had a regular fleet of canoes. I say, Margaretta, I like that chap from Boston. Do something for him, won’t you?”
“Certainly, Bonny, what do you want me to do?”
“Make him some kind of a water-party.”
Margaretta became troubled. “How many people do you want to invite?”
“Oh, about sixty.”
“Don’t you think if we had three or four of your chosen friends he would enjoy it just as much?”
“No, I don’t; what do you think, Roger?”
“I don’t know about him. I hate crowds myself.”
“I like them,” said Bonny. “Come, Margaretta, decide.”
“Oh, my dear, spoiled boy,” said the girl, in perplexity, “I would give a party to all Riverport if it would please you, but I am trying dreadfully hard to economize. Those large things cost so much.”
Bonny opened wide his big blue eyes. “You are not getting mean, Margaretta?”
“No, no, my heart feels more generous than ever, but I see that this eternal entertaining on a big scale doesn’t amount to much. Once in awhile a huge affair is nice, but to keep it up week after week is a waste of time and energy, and you don’t make real friends.”
“All right,” said Bonny, good-naturedly. “I’ll take him for a swim. That won’t cost anything.”
“Now, Bonny,” said Margaretta, in an injured voice, “don’t misunderstand me. We’ll have a little excursion on the river, if you like, with half a dozen of your friends, and I’ll give you a good big party this summer—you would rather have it later on, wouldn’t you, when there are more girls visiting here?”
“Yes, indeed, let us wait for the girls,” said Bonny.
“And in the meantime,” continued Margaretta, “bring the Boston boy here as often as you like, to drop in to meals. I shall be delighted to see him, and so will you, Roger, won’t you?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the young man, who had gone off into a reverie, “but it’s all right if you say so.”
Bonny laughed at him, then, jumping up, said, “I must be going.”
“Where’s the dog, Margaretta?” asked Roger. “I’ll walk home with the boy.”
“But your headache,” said his wife.
“Is all gone—that prescription cured it,” said the young man, with a meaning glance at the sheet of note-paper clasped in his wife’s hand.
She smiled and waved it at him. “Wives’ cold cash salve for the cure of husbands’ headaches.”
“What kind of a salve is that?” asked Bonny, curiously.
“Wait till you have a house of your own, Bonny,” said his sister, caressingly, “and I will tell you.”
Then, as the man and the boy walked slowly away, she slipped into the hammock and turned her face up to the lovely evening sky.
“Little moon, I call you to witness I have begun a countermarch. I’m never more going to spend all the money I get, even if I have to earn some of it with my own hands!”
CHAPTER V.
THE TRAINING OF A BOY
Roger, sitting in his office at the iron works, from time to time raised his grave face to look at Bonny, who was fidgeting restlessly about the room.
Next to his wife, Roger loved his young brother-in-law,—the fair-haired, genial lad, everybody’s favourite, no one’s enemy but his own.
He wondered why the boy had come to him. Probably he was in some scrape and wanted help.
Presently the boy flung himself round upon him. “Roger—why don’t some of you good people try to reform me?”
Roger leaned back in his chair and stared at the disturbed young face.
“Come, now, don’t say that you don’t think I need reformation,” said the boy, mockingly.
“I guess we all need that,” replied his brother-in-law, soberly, “but you come of pretty good stock, Bonny.”
“The stock’s all right. That’s why I’m afraid of breaking loose and disgracing it.”
“What have you been doing?” asked Roger, kindly.
“I haven’t been doing anything,” said the boy, sullenly. “It’s what I may do that I’m afraid of.”
Roger said nothing. He was just casting about in his mind for a suitable reply, when the boy went on. “If you’ve been brought up just like a parson, and had all kinds of sentiments and good thoughts lived at you, and then don’t rise to the goodness you’re bursting with, it’s bound to rebel and give you a bad time.”
The man, having got a clue to the boy’s mental trouble, hastened to say, “You act all right. I shouldn’t say you were unhappy.”
“Act!”