“You know that old coat of mine that is up in the clothes-press?”
I nodded my head in assent, but did not venture to speak.
“I’ve been thinking to-day,” added my husband, “that it would be
just the thing for Mr. Bryan, who lives opposite. It’s rather too
much worn for me, but will look quite decent on him, compared with
the clothes he now wears. Don’t you think it is a good thought? We
will, of course, make him a present of the garment.”
My eyes drooped to the table, and I felt the blood crimsoning my
face. For a moment or two I remained silent, and then answered—
“I’m sorry you didn’t think of this before; but it’s too late now.”
“Too late! Why?” enquired my husband.
“I sold the coat this afternoon,” was my reply.
“Sold it!”
“Yes. A man came along with some handsome china ornaments, and I
sold the coat for a pair of vases to set on our mantle-pieces.”
There was an instant change in my husband’s face. He disapproved of
what I had done; and, though he uttered no condemning words, his
countenance gave too clear an index to his feelings.
“The coat would have done poor Mr. Bryan a great deal more
good than the vases will ever do Jane,” spoke up aunt Rachel, with
less regard for my feelings than was manifested by my husband. “I
don’t think,” she continued, “that any body ought to sell old
clothes for either money or nicknackeries to put on the
mantle-pieces. Let them be given to the poor, and they’ll do some
good. There isn’t a housekeeper in moderate circumstances that
couldn’t almost clothe some poor family, by giving away the cast off
garments that every year accumulate on her hands.”
How sharply did I feel the rebuking spirit in these words of aunt
Rachel.
“What’s done can’t be helped now,” said my husband kindly,
interrupting, as he spoke, some further remarks that aunt Rachel
evidently intended to make. “We must do better next time.”
“I must do better,” was my quick remark, made in penitent tones. “I
was very thoughtless.”
To relieve my mind, my husband changed the subject of conversation;
but, nothing could relieve the pressure upon my feelings, caused by
a too acute consciousness of having done what in the eyes of my
husband, looked like a want of true humanity. I could not bear that
he should think me void of sympathy for others.
The day following was Sunday. Church time came, and Mr. Smith went
to the clothes press for his best coat, which had been worn only for
a few months.
“Jane!” he called to me suddenly, in a voice that made me start.
“Jane! Where is my best coat?”
“In the clothes press,” I replied, coming out from our chamber into
the passage, as I spoke.
“No; it’s not here,” was his reply. “And, I shouldn’t wonder if you
had sold my good coat for those china vases.”
“No such thing!” I quickly answered, though my heart gave a great
bound at his words; and then sunk in my bosom with a low tremor of
