“When he had the fever they were very kind to him,” said Mrs. Wrinkell; “and, after all, Mr. Brownlow has a right to do what he likes with his own.”
“He may have a right,” said Mr. Wrinkell, doubtfully, “but it’s a thing that always makes a heart-burning, and always will.”
“Well, William, we may be thankful it can’t make any difference to us,” said his wife. This was the sum of the good woman’s philosophy, but it answered very well. It was always her conviction that there will be peace in our day.
As for Brown, when he first heard the news, he went home to the bosom of his family with bitterness in his heart. “I can’t call to mind a single day I ever missed, except that fever, and the day Billy was born,” he said to Mrs. Brown, despondingly; “and here’s this young fellow that’s been six months in the office--”
“It’s a shame,” said that injured woman; “it’s a black burning shame. A bit of a lad picked up in the streets that don’t know what money is; and you a married man with six--not to say the faithful servant you have been. I wonder for my part how Mr. Brownlow dares to look you in the face.”
“He don’t mind much about that. What he thinks is, that the money’s his own,” said poor Brown, with a sigh.
“But it ain’t his own,” said the higher spirited wife. “I would just like to know who works hardest for it, him or you. If I saw him every day as you do, I would soon give him a piece of my mind.”
“And lose my place altogether,” said the husband. But, notwithstanding, though he did not give Mr. Brownlow a piece of his mind, Brown did not hesitate to express his feelings a little in the tone of his voice, and the disapproval in his eye.