CHAPTER V.

A Lucky rescue.

The opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of comparative prosperity in the home of Timothy Crump.  To persons accustomed to live in their frugal way, three hundred dollars seemed a fortune.  Nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to extravagances.

“Let us save something against a rainy day,” said Mrs. Crump.

“We can, if I get work soon,” answered her husband.  “This little one will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we should not save up at least half of it.”

“There’s no knowing when you will get work, Timothy,” said Rachel, in her usual cheerful way; “it isn’t well to crow before you’re out of the woods.”

“Very true, Rachel.  It isn’t your failing to look too much at the sunny side of the picture.”

“I’m ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere,” said his sister, in the same enlivening way.

“Don’t you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with this child?” asked Timothy.

“I’ve no doubt it seems bright enough, now,” said Rachel, gloomily, “but a young child’s a great deal of trouble.”

“Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel?” inquired Jack, demurely.

“Yes;” said his aunt, slowly; “if all babies were as cross as you were when you were an infant, three hundred dollars wouldn’t begin to pay for the trouble of having one round.”

Mr. Crump and his wife laughed at this sally at Jack’s expense, but the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer, “I’ve always heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is the pleasanter he will grow up.  What a very pleasant baby you must have been!”

“Jack!” said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly, “He’s got you there, Rachel.”

The latter, however, took it as a serious matter, and observed that, when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their elders.  “But, I don’t know as I can blame ’em much,” she continued, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, “when their own parents encourage ’em in it.”

Timothy was warned, by experience, that silence was his best (sic) defence.  Since anything he might say would only be likely to make matters worse.

Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say another word till dinner time.  She sat down to the table with a profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for.  Notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite.  Indeed, Rachel seemed to thrive on her gloomy views of life and human nature.  She was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent in all her conduct, as far as this peculiarity was concerned.  Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.