“Mother, this is an important day for me,” said Grant Colburn, as he entered the kitchen with an armful of wood, and deposited it in the box behind the stove.
His mother looked up from the table where she was cutting out pie crust, and asked in surprise, “What do you mean, Grant? Why is to-day any different from ordinary days?”
“So you are, Grant. I ought to have thought of it. I am sorry,” she added wistfully, “that I haven’t got a present for you, but you know Mr. Tarbox——”
“Is the stingiest man in the country. Yes, I know that well enough.”
“I actually haven’t a cent that I can call my own, Grant.”
“I know that very well, mother. It was an unlucky day when you married that old skinflint.”
“Don’t call him that, Grant,” said his mother, with an apprehensive look in the direction of the door.
“He’s all that, and more if possible. When did he give you any money last?”
“And how much did he give you at that time?”
“What a shame! Why, if you had hired out as his housekeeper he would have been compelled to give you more.”
“Yes, Grant,” sighed Mrs. Tarbox, “I wish I were his housekeeper instead of his wife. I should be more independent.”
“He made a good bargain when he married you, mother. But I never understood why you married _him_.”
“I acted for the best, as I thought, Grant. You know how your poor father left us. After his affairs were settled, there were only two hundred and fifty dollars left, and you were but twelve years old. I took in sewing, and earned what I could, but at the end of a year I had used up a hundred dollars of our small capital. Then Mr. Tarbox asked me to marry him, and I agreed, for I thought it would give us a comfortable home.”
“A comfortable home!” repeated Grant. “We have enough to eat, it is true, but you never worked so hard in your life, and I can say the same for myself. I was barely fourteen when Mr. Tarbox took me away from school, and since then I have had to work early and late. At five o’clock, winter and summer, I have to turn out of bed, and work all day, so that when night comes I am dead tired.”
“That is true, Grant,” said his mother, with a look of distress. “You work too hard for a boy of your age.”
“And what do I get for it?” continued Grant indignantly. “I haven’t any clothes. Charlie Titus asked me the other day why I didn’t go to church. I was ashamed to tell him that it was because I had no clothes fit to wear there. It is a year since I had my last suit, and now I have grown out of it. My coat is too short in the sleeves, and my pantaloons in the legs.”