“There,” she cried holding the lad out on her lap as he struggled to life again; “take him, heft him, make sure what a shadow he is; then down upon your knees, John Smith, and thank God that you’re not quite a murderer! Your meanness will be the death of me yet. Now I warn you. Me and the children, your duty to take care of us? John Smith, John Smith, now don’t get me out of patience.” “Well, then, what if I say that I am sorry—right down sorry?” “In that case, John Smith——” “That I will let them have anything they want, without charging till better times come round,” continued the grocer, soaking a cracker in brandy, and feeding it in fragments to the boy. “John—John Smith, I always did say——” “And what we haven’t got, I’ll go right out and buy with our own money—sausages, beef-steak, mutton-chops. Will that pacify you, Mary Jane?” So the two set to work in earnest, while little James looked on, somewhat faint still, and pleasantly bewildered, with a strong taste of brandy in his mouth, and a warmth in his whole system that he had not felt for months. “Don’t take too much of that, Jimmy dear,” said Mrs. Smith, looking up from the basket she was packing. “Dried-beef, crackers, tea, bread; just stuff in a codfish, Smith, edgeways down this side, and fill up the chinks with apples—them red ones are the best. As I was saying, Jimmy, one cracker can soak up no end of moisture, and your cheeks are getting red. Now, Smith, run out, and hurry back with the other things.” Smith went out, and his wife, in her rich benevolence, began to fill innumerable paper bags with dried prunes, raisins, loaf-sugar, and other little dainties, which, in her eager haste to pack up substantials, had escaped her mind till then. These she pressed down into the basket, and stuffed into her own pocket, which were quite full when her husband returned with three or four paper parcels in his hand, looking more radiant than any man who had bribed his wife’s forgiveness with a diamond bracelet could have done. “Now, wife, you are ready?” “Stop a minute. John Smith, you are an angel, coat, boots, and all; but I’ve thought of something. Any fire in your kitchen, Jimmy, dear?” “No, ma’am. We haven’t had any use for a fire lately!” “Exactly. No wood, no coal?” James shook his head. Mrs. Smith opened a side door, and called to some one in the upper rooms, in which her family dwelt. “Kate! Kate Gorman!” “Well, marum, what’s to the fore now?” “Come down stairs, Kate—but no matter. Is there a good fire in the range?” “Never a better!” “Then take this, and this; broil the steak, fry the ham, slice up the cold potatoes left after dinner, and fry them; then heat some tin pans, and put them in.” “Thin I’m not to set the table, marum?” “No. Make a strong pot of coffee, and one of tea, bring ’em hot; pickles, mustard; and don’t forget some of them strawberry preserves, too.” “But what am I to do with the same, Mistress Smith?”