Aunt Millie, in attempting to mend matters, unfortunately used the wrong method. She antagonized her husband, sometimes beyond mortal patience. She generally waited until my uncle was sober, and then let loose vituperative storms that fell with crashing force on his spirit. She was mistress of the vocabulary of invective; the stinging word, the humiliating, the maddening word was instant on her lips. She did not have her word once and for all. If she had, it would probably have saved matters; but she kept up a steady stream of abuse throughout the time uncle was in the house. Often he was planning for a night of home when his wife would unload the full burden of her ire on him; and if only for quietness, he would leave the house altogether and find solace in the noggins and mugs. As an onlooker, and though a mere lad, I saw that my aunt was taking the wrong course, and every now and then, like a Greek chorus at the tragedy, I would remonstrate with her, “Why don’t you let him alone when he wants to stay at home? You’ve driven him off when he was not going out, aunt!” “You clown!” she would storm, “mind your place and manners before I turn on you and give you a taste of the strap!” After that it became my custom, whenever uncle was getting a tongue-lashing, to say to him, in a whisper, “Don’t mind her, uncle. Don’t leave the house. She doesn’t know what she’s saying!” In secret, uncle would say to me, “It’s more than flesh and blood can stand, Al, this constant nagging. I’d not be half so much away in the public-houses if she’d let me have a peaceful time at home.” Indeed, my uncle, intoxicated was five times more agreeable than was his wife when angered. She herself was drinking mildly, and every sup of ale fired her temper until it burned at white heat. All the bulldog of the British roared and yelped in her then. If contradicted by my uncle or me, she threw the first thing to hand, saucer, knife, or loaf. So fearful was I that murder would ensue, that several times I whispered to my uncle to go off to the “Linnet’s Nest” in the interests of peace. Like the reports of the messengers bringing to Job the full measure of his loss, came market letters from Manchester, unpaid bills from the town merchants, and personal repudiations by my uncle’s old customers. We had to solicit credit from the shop-keepers. Failure was on its way. One spring day in that year Uncle Stanwood came into the house in great excitement. He met my aunt’s inquiring remark with, “I’m going to ship for the United States, Millie!” “Ship your grandaddy!” she retorted. “Been drinking gin this time, eh?” “I’m sober enough, thank God” replied uncle. “I’ve borrowed enough money to carry me across. That’s the only way I shall ever straighten out and get away from the public-houses. It’s best; don’t you think so, old girl?” “What about us?” asked my aunt with an angry gleam in her eyes. “What’s to become of us?”