My eyes drooped to the table, and I felt the blood crimsoning my face.  For a moment or two I remained silent, and then answered—­

“I’m sorry you didn’t think of this before; but it’s too late now.”

“Too late!  Why?” enquired my husband.

“I sold the coat this afternoon,” was my reply.

“Sold it!”

“Yes.  A man came along with some handsome china ornaments, and I sold the coat for a pair of vases to set on our mantle-pieces.”

There was an instant change in my husband’s face.  He disapproved of what I had done; and, though he uttered no condemning words, his countenance gave too clear an index to his feelings.

“The coat would have done poor Mr. (sic) Byran a great deal more good than the vases will ever do Jane,” spoke up aunt Rachel, with less regard for my feelings than was manifested by my husband.  “I don’t think,” she continued, “that any body ought to sell old clothes for either money or nicknackeries to put on the mantle-pieces.  Let them be given to the poor, and they’ll do some good.  There isn’t a housekeeper in moderate circumstances that couldn’t almost clothe some poor family, by giving away the cast off garments that every year accumulate on her hands.”

How sharply did I feel the rebuking spirit in these words of aunt Rachel.

“What’s done can’t be helped now,” said my husband kindly, interrupting, as he spoke, some further remarks that aunt Rachel evidently intended to make.  “We must do better next time.”

“I must do better,” was my quick remark, made in penitent tones.  “I was very thoughtless.”

To relieve my mind, my husband changed the subject of conversation; but, nothing could relieve the pressure upon my feelings, caused by a too acute consciousness of having done what in the eyes of my husband, looked like a want of true humanity.  I could not bear that he should think me void of sympathy for others.

The day following was Sunday.  Church time came, and Mr. Smith went to the clothes press for his best coat, which had been worn only for a few months.

“Jane!” he called to me suddenly, in a voice that made me start.  “Jane!  Where is my best coat?”

“In the clothes press,” I replied, coming out from our chamber into the passage, as I spoke.

“No; it’s not here,” was his reply.  “And, I shouldn’t wonder if you had sold my good coat for those china vases.”

“No such thing!” I quickly answered, though my heart gave a great bound at his words; and then sunk in my bosom with a low tremor of alarm.

“Here’s my old coat,” said Mr. Smith, holding up that defaced garment—­“Where is the new one?”

“The old clothes man has it, as sure as I live!” burst from my lips.

“Well, that is a nice piece of work, I must confess!”

This was all my husband said; but it was enough to smite me almost to the floor.  Covering my face with my hands, I dropped into a chair, and sat and sobbed for a while bitterly.