“Nothin’ to be had without money, ma’am; that’s what I said.”

“Bridget!”

“Sir!”

That “sir!”—­it was an admission of two quarters in arrear at least.

“Take that child to bed this moment!  Begone!  I’ll bear this no longer.”

The girl stared, muttered, grabbed the baby, and flung away with such an air—­three quarters due, if there was a single day!—­banged the door to after her, and bundled off up the front stairs at a hand-gallop, her tread growing heavier, and her voice louder and louder with every plunge.

“Sarah!”

“Peter!”

“I wonder you can put up with such insolence.  That girl is getting insufferable.”

The poor wife looked up in amazement, but opened not her mouth; and the husband continued walking the floor with a tread that shook the whole house, and stopping occasionally, as if to watch the effect, or to see how much further he might go without injury to his own health.

“How often have I told you, my dear, that if a woman would be respected by her own servants, she must respect herself, and never allow a word nor a look of impertinence—­never! never!—­not even a look!  Why, Sarah, life itself would be a burthen to me.  Upon my word,” growing more and more in earnest every moment—­“Upon my word, I believe I should hang myself!  And how you can bear it—­you, with a nature so gentle and so affectionate, and so—­I declare to you”—­

“Pray don’t speak so loud, my love.  The people that are going by the window stop and look up towards the house.  And what will the Peabodys think?”

“What do I care!  Let them think what they please.  Am I to regulate the affairs of my household by what a neighbor may happen to think, hey?  The fact is, my dear Sarah—­you must excuse me, I don’t want to hurt your feelings—­but, the fact is, you ought to have had the child put to bed three hours ago.”

“Three hours ago!”

“Yes, three hours ago; and that would have prevented all this trouble.”

Not a word from the young, patient wife; but she turned away hurriedly, and there was a twinkle, as of a rain-drop, falling through the lamplight.

A dead silence followed.  After a few more turns, the husband stopped, and, with something of self-reproach in his tone, said—­

“I take it for granted there is nothing the matter with the boy?”

No answer.

“Have you any idea what made him cry so terribly?  Teething, perhaps.”

No answer.

“Or the colic.  You do not answer me, Sarah.  It cannot be that you have allowed that girl to put him to bed, if there is anything the matter with him, poor little fellow!”

The young wife looked up, sorrowing and frightened.

“The measles are about, you know, and the scarlet fever, and the hooping-cough, and the mumps; but, surely, a mother who is with her child all night long and all day long ought to be able to see the symptoms of any and every ailment before they would be suspected by another.  And if it should so happen”—­