Mrs Frisby burst into tears. “I think ’tis very hard o’ Frisby to go complainin’ of me,” she sobbed. “A body can but do their best. With four childern and such poor health as I have, I think it’s wonderful I can get along at all. And as to cleanin’ up after Frisby (casting a sour look at the boots), I’m sure I can’t be expected to do that.” “Good morning,” said Mrs Spencer, turning sharply round and walking out of the house. As she drew near her own home she came upon Frisby himself, looking hot and tired, and walking with a lagging step. There had been no preparations of any kind for dinner at his cottage, and she wondered if the poor man would be obliged to get it himself, while his wife read her trashy paper, and dandled the big child, which could perfectly well have been taught to amuse itself happily while its mother was busy. “I’ve just been to your house,” she remarked, as she came up to him. Poor Frisby murmured something about wishing he had known, and fearing she had found things a bit upset. “Now listen to me, James,” said the old lady. “I’ve known you too long to let you go downhill so fast without trying to help you. I’ve been turning over a plan in my mind, which may possibly make that wife of yours think a little more seriously of her duties.” James got red, but listened in silence while Mrs Spencer began to talk in a low rapid voice. He looked more and more astonished as she proceeded, and finally burst out laughing. “’Twould be a good notion,” he said, “a very good notion, but—” “Try it for a week,” said Mrs Spencer. “That’s all I ask, try it for a week; I’ll undertake that you shan’t be the loser, and of course you must not say a word to your wife about having met me.” * * * “’Tis past six, Jim,” said Mrs Frisby on the following morning, as she stood by the bed, after having reluctantly clothed herself. “Didn’t ye hear church-clock go?” “I heard it,” said Jim drowsily. “I’m not feelin’ so very well, this mornin’, my dear; I don’t think I can get up.” Mrs Frisby, in real alarm, questioned him as to the nature of his malady. Did his head ache—was his back bad—was he feeling his heart any ways queer? Her husband, after reflecting for a moment or two, replied that it was just “all-overishness,” and that he thought a rest would do him good. “Dear!” exclaimed Mrs Frisby, “but I haven’t a drop of water in the house. Who’s to fill the bucket at the well?” “I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, Sally,” returned Jim. “’Tis very unfortunate—very, I’m sure, but I can’t think how else it is to be managed.” “Well, I’m not going to do it, then,” cried Sally. “I never heerd of such a thing! You great lazy fellow, lying in bed with nothing the matter with ye.”