I rose, with my sick child in my arms, and he stumbled after me into our bedroom. For the first time it was not ready for him. I had been so distracted with my numerous worries that I had forgotten to make the bed and put away the litter left from all our morning toilets; the place was a perfect pigsty for him to go into. And he coming so tired from the sea--looking to his home for what little comfort his hard life afforded him! When I saw the state of things, I burst into tears. With an extremely grubby handkerchief he wiped them away, and kissed me and comforted me. "What the deuce does it matter?" quoth he. "Why, bless your heart, I could sleep on the top of a gatepost. Just toss the things on anyhow--here, don't you bother--I'll do it." He was contented with anything, but I felt shamed and heart-broken to have failed him in a matter of this kind--the more so because he _was_ so unselfish and unexacting, so unlike ordinary husbands who think wives are made for no other purpose than to keep them always comfortable. In ten minutes he was snoring deeply, and I was trying not to drop tears into the little stew I was cooking for his tea. "At least he shall have a nice tea," I determined, "though goodness knows how I am going to pay for it." Poor baby was easier, and asleep in his cradle; the two others had gone to play with a neighbour's children. So the house was at peace for a time, and that was a relief. It was also an opportunity for thinking--for all one's cares to obtrude themselves upon the mind--and the smallest molehills looked mountains under the shadow of my physical weariness. Having arranged the tea-table and made up the fire, I sat down for a moment, with idle hands in my lap; and I was just coming to the sad conclusion that life wasn't worth living--wicked woman that I was!--when I heard the evening postman. Expecting nothing, except miserable little bills with "account rendered" on them, I trailed dejectedly to the street door. Opening it, a long-leaved book was thrust under my nose, and I was requested to sign for a registered letter. "Ah-h-h!" I breathed deeply, while flying for a pen. "It is that ever-blessed Aunt Kate--I know it is! She seems to divine the exact moment by instinct." I scribbled my name, received the letter, saw my father's handwriting, and turned into the house, much sobered. For father, who was a bad correspondent--like me--had intimated more than once that he was finding it as much as he could do to make ends meet, with his rapidly increasing family.