Joe evinced no interest, but removed his pipe to say: 

“Now, wife, don’t get uneasy.  Let’s be comfortable.”

“Yes, I feel a presentiment about those rags;” the little woman whisked into a chair beside her lord.  “They say the paper manufacturers are giving a big price now, husband.  Why can’t you take a load to the city to-day?  I’ve been thinking of it all the morning.”

“I’ll do my own thinking, marm,” said Joe, with dignity.  He rose, however, and laid his pipe away.

Mrs. Somerby said no more, sure that she had roused him from his torpid condition.  She wound Joe up to the starting-point, just as she did her kitchen-clock, and he kept upon his course as steadily as that ancient time-piece.  She was just the wife for ease-loving Joe, whom her brisk ways never wounded, for he knew her heart was full of tenderness for him.

An hour later Joe drove into the yard.  Mrs. Somerby flew out with a lump of sugar for a jaded-looking horse, bought by Joe to speculate upon, and who ate everything he could get, including his bedding, and never grew fat.

“I’ll make a trotter of him in a month, and sell him to some of the grandees!” Joe said, but his system failed or the material was poor,—­old Jack slouched along as if each step was likely to be his last.  But despite this, Jack had become very dear to the childless couple, and they were as blind as doating parents to his defects.

“Bless his heart!” cried Mrs. Somerby, as Jack whinnied at her approach, and thrust his ugly nose into her hand.

Mr. Somerby felt of Jack’s ribs with a professional air, and said: 

“I’m trying a new system with this ’ere beast; I think he’s picking up a grain.”

“He’ll pick up the grain, no doubt,” playfully retorted his wife.  “Now then, I’ll help you off.  Those paper men’ll have all they want if you’re not on hand.  I’m glad I put you up to sorting the stuff last week.”

“You’ll ‘put me up’ till I’m clean gone,” said Joe, winking to himself, as he followed his lively wife.  “Let them bags alone, marm.  You can be putting me up a big lunch.”

“It’s all ready, under the wagon-seat.  By good rights, Joe, you’d ought to have a boy to help you.”

“It isn’t a woman’s work, I know,” said he, kindly.  “You just sit here and look on.”

Joe swung her up on a bale as if she had been a child.  Inspired by her bright eyes he worked with a will.  The wagon was soon loaded.  Mrs. Joe ran for his overcoat and best hat, gave him a wifely kiss, and watched him depart from the low brown door-way.

“She’s the best bargain I ever made,” thought Joe, as he jogged toward the city.  “I’m not quite up to her time, I know,” continued he, and there was a tender look in his sleepy eyes.  “Howsomedever, I’ll make a lucky hit yet!”