"Oh, isn't it much!" cried little Mary.
"Dear me, there's the doorbell," said Clytie. "Who can it be at this
hour? Run, George, and see!"
"It's a letter for you, mother," announced George, reappearing. "There's
a man in the hall, waiting for an answer."
"It looks like a bill," said Clytie nervously, tearing open the
envelope; "but I don't owe any bill. Why, it's two and a quarter, from
the tailor, for fixing over my old suit last fall! I'm positive I paid
it weeks ago. There's some mistake."
"He says he's been here three times, but you were out."
"Have you any money for it, Clytie?" asked her husband.
Clytie looked as if a thunderbolt had struck her.
"Yes, I have; but--oh, I don't want to take it for that! I need every
penny I've got."
"Well, there's no need of feeling so badly about it," said Langshaw
resignedly.
"Give the ten-dollar bill to the man, George, and see if he can change
it." He couldn't resist a slight masculine touch of severity at her
incapacity. "I wish you'd tend to these things at the time, Clytie, or
let me know about them.
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