He leaned, with a curious effort at concealment from them all and himself, upon the corner of the bench near Abby.  Then a young man passed them, with such an air of tragedy and such a dead-white face that they all stared after him.

“What in the world ails you, Ben Simmons?” called out Sadie Peel.  But he did not act as if he heard.  He crossed vehemently to the other side of the room, and stood at a window, looking out at the fierce white slant of the storm.

“What in creation ails him?” cried Sadie Peel.

“I guess I know,” Willy Jones volunteered, timidly.

“What?”

“He was going to get married, and this cut in his wages is going to put a stop to it.  I heard him say so this morning.”

“Married!  Who to?” asked Sadie Peel.

“Floretta Vining.”

“My land!” cried Sadie Peel.  “So she did take up with him after the school-teacher went away.  I always said she would.  I always knew Edward Harris wouldn’t marry her, and I always said Ben Simmons would get her if he hung on long enough.  Floretta was bound to marry somebody; she wasn’t going to wind up an old maid; and if she couldn’t get one, she’d take another.  I suppose Ben has got that sick sister of his to do for since her father died, and thinks he can’t get married with any less pay.  Floretta won’t make a very cheap wife.  She’s bound to have things whether or no, and Ben ’ain’t never earned so much as some.  He’s awful steady, but he’s slow as cold molasses, and he won’t let his sister suffer for no Floretta.”

“That’s so; I don’t believe he would,” said Abby.  “What any man in his senses wants a doll like that for enough to look as if he was dead when he’s got to put off marrying her!”

“That’s because you ain’t a man, Abby Atkins,” said Sadie Peel.  “All the men think of is looks, and little fine airs and graces.”

“It seems as if they might get along,” ventured Willy Jones, “as if they might do with less for a while.”

Then Ellen turned to him unexpectedly.  “There’s no use in talking about doing with less when every single cent has to count,” said she, sternly.  “Ben Simmons has his taxes and insurance, and a steady doctor’s bill for his sister, and medicines to buy.  He can’t have laid up a cent, for he’s slow, though he’s a good workman.  You can’t do with less when you haven’t any more than enough.”

“That’s so,” said Abby.  Then she turned a tender, conciliating, indulgent gaze on the young man at her side.  “If I were Floretta Vining,” said she, “and if Ellen were, we would go without things, and never know it.  We’d go to work; but Floretta, she’s different.  We went to school with Floretta Vining.”

“Floretta Vining is dreadful fond of men, but she wouldn’t go without a yard of ribbon for one if he was dying,” said Sadie Peel, conclusively.  “It’s awful hard on Ben Simmons, and no mistake.”

“What?” said Amos Lee, coming up.