It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonely claim is pitilessly set aside.  In the daily shifts of bare life, the tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten.  Gaunt looks, threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children’s wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom they once were very tender.

David had noticed it for many months.  He could see that Sallie counted grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required.  His little newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer papers, and some did not pay for those they did take.  He made little losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it would “be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own.”

This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through the summer the fear had constantly been before him.  He knew how Sallie’s plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought which haunted his own—­would they commit him, then, to the care of public charities?

“We have no time to love each other,” he muttered, sadly, “and my bite and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round.  I’ll speak to Sandy myself about it—­poor lad!  It will come hard on him to say the first word.”

The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep.  Sandy came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed.  Then Sallie began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that had been discussed many times before.

“He only made bare expenses last week and there’s a loss of seventy cents this week already.  Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off what is sure to come.  Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee to-night, and his bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal.  It is very hard on us all!”

“I don’t think the children mind it, Sallie.  Every one of them loves the old man—­God bless him!  He was a good father to me.”

“I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children’s bread.  And neither he nor they get enough.  Sandy, do take him down to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in.  He will be better off; he will get better food and every other comfort.  You must do it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer.”

“It’s getting near Christmas, Sallie.  Maybe he’ll get New Year’s presents enough to put things straight.  Last year they were nearly eighteen dollars, you know.”

“Don’t you see that Jamie could get that just as well?  Jamie can take the business and make something of it.  Father is letting it get worse and worse every week.  We should have one less to feed, and Jamie’s earnings besides.  Sandy, it has got to be!  Do it while we can make something by the step.”