Henry Thorne and William Moreland were workmen in a large manufacturing establishment in one of our thriving inland towns.  They had married sisters, and thus a friendship that had long existed, was confirmed by closer ties of interest.

They had been married about two years, at the time of their introduction to the reader, and, already, Moreland could perceive that his earnings brought many more comforts for his little family than did Henry’s.  The difference was not to be accounted for in the days the other spent in pleasure taking, although their aggregate loss was no mean item to be taken from a poor man’s purse.  It was to be found, mainly, in a disposition to spend, rather than to save; to pay away for trifles that were not really needed, very small sums, whose united amounts in a few weeks would rise to dollars.  But, when there was added to this constant check upon his prosperity the frequent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that Ellen had less of good and comfortable clothing than her sister Jane, and that her house was far less neatly furnished.

All this had been observed, with pain, by William Moreland and his wife, but, until the conversation recorded in the opening of this story, no word or remonstrance or warning had been ventured upon by the former.  The spirit in which Moreland’s words were received, encouraged him to hope that he might exercise a salutary control over Henry, if he persevered, and he resolved that he would extend thus far towards him the offices of a true friend.

After dinner on the day during which her husband was absent, Ellen called in to see Jane, and sit the afternoon with her.  They were only sisters, and had always loved each other much.  During their conversation, Jane said, in allusion to the season: 

“It begins to feel a little chilly to-day, as if winter were coming.  And, by the way, you are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, are you not?”

“Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane,” Ellen replied, in a serious tone; “Henry’s earnings, somehow or other, don’t seem to go far with us; and yet I try to be as prudent as I can.  We have but a few dollars laid by, and both of us want warm underclothing.  Henry must have a coat and pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter; so I must try and do without the cloak, I suppose.”

“I am sorry for that.  But keep a good heart about it, sister.  Next fall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one; and you shall have mine as often as you want it, this winter.  I can’t go out much, you know; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too young to leave often.”

“You are very kind, Jane,” said Ellen, and her voice slightly trembled.

A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of conversation was changed to one more cheerful.

That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, much fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild pigeon.