"Now, the first thing we've got to do is to get out of debt, isn't it?" "The very first thing, if it can be managed." "We'll manage it this way. The furniture and the silver and my jewels must all be sold, of course; that's easy. But even after we've done that, there'll still be a great big burden to carry, I suppose?" "Pretty big, I'm afraid, for your shoulders." "Oh, we'll pay it every bit in the end. We won't go bankrupt. You'll go back to the railroad on a salary, and we'll begin to pinch on the spot." "Yes, but times are hard and salaries are low." "Anyway they're salaries, there's that much to be said for them. And while we're pinching as hard as we can pinch, we'll move over to Church Hill and rent two or three rooms in the old house with the enchanted garden. All the servants will have to go except Aunt Euphronasia, who couldn't go very far, poor thing, because she's rheumatic and can't stand on her feet. She can sit still very well, however, and rock the baby, and I'll look after the rooms and get the meals--I'm glad they'll be simple ones--and we'll put by every penny that we can save." "The mere interest on the debt will take almost as much as we can save. There'll be some arrangement made, of course, and the payments will be easy, but there's one thing I'm determined on, and that is that I'll pay it, every cent, if I live. Then, too, there's chance, you know. Something may turn up--something almost always turns up to a man like myself." "Well, if it turns up, we'll welcome it with open arms. But in the meantime we'll see if we can't scrape along without it. I'm going over this morning to look for rooms. How soon, Ben, do you suppose they will evict us?" "Does there exist a woman," I demanded sternly, "who can be humorous over her own eviction?" "It's better to be humorous over one's own than over one's neighbour's, isn't it? And besides, a laugh may help things, but tears never do. I was born laughing, mamma always said." "Then laugh on, sweetheart." I had risen from the table, and was moving toward the door, when she caught my arm. "There's only one thing I'll never, never consent to," she said, "you remember Dolly?" "Your old mare?" "I've pensioned her, you know, and I'll pay that pension as long as she lives if we both have to starve." "You shall do it if we're hanged and drawn for it--and now, Sally, I must be off to my troubles!" "Then, good-by and be brave. Oh, Ben, my dearest, what is the matter?" "It's my head. I've been worrying too much, and it's gone back on me like that twice in the last few days." I went out hurriedly, convinced that even failure wasn't quite so bad as it had appeared from a distance; and Sally, following me to the door, stood smiling after me as I went down the block toward the car line. Looking back at the corner, I saw that she was still standing on the threshold, with the sun in her eyes and her head held high under the ruffle of lace and ribbon that framed her hair.