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HOUSEKEEPING MONEY. 
BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES. 
Mrs. Popham Wing had company to tea. Com¬ 
pany to tea meant something with Mrs. Popham 
Wing. It meant the big , silver tea-service, with the 
twisted silver serpents for handles, and queer clusters 
of frosted oak leaves on the top—it meant tea that 
would have made old Dr. Johnson turn over in his 
grave, and coffee clear as amber—it meant biscuits 
like magnified flakes of snow, and hot waffles—it 
meant raspberry jam, lucent honey in the comb, and 
poundcake that was a mountain of gold underneath a 
pearly crust of icing—it meant Boston cream puffs, 
and dainty Home-made maccaroons—it meant broiled 
spring chickens and silver-gleaming sardines, dripping 
with their native oil; and, moreover, it generally 
meant a touch of mild after-dyspepsia to all who par¬ 
took thereof. 
The six matrons around the table were just be¬ 
ginning to appreciate the flavor of their first cup, 
mingled with a luscious morsel of current gossip. 
“A little more sugar, if you please, Mrs. Wing,” 
said Mrs. Deacon Hyde. “ Yes, it’s quite true. Ask 
Mrs. Mowbray if it isn’t.” 
Mrs. Mowbray.shook her head until the artificial 
bees in her cap bobbed around as if they contem¬ 
plated an immediate swarming. 
“ Yes,” said she, lugubriously; “I believe Sybil 
has made up her mind at last.” 
“ Not to marry Mark Chesterfield ?” cried Mrs. 
Popham Wing, setting down the tea-pot in such a 
hurry that the serpent’s tail thereon came iu violent 
contact with the side of the sugar-basin. 
“ Yes, to marry Mr. Chesterfield !” 
“She’s very unwise,” said Mrs. Wing. “Not but 
that Mark is an excellent man, and a good provider, 
besides being a member of the Baptist church, I 
ought to know, for bis first wife was my own sainted 
niece, Priscilla Capsicum. But lie’s a crotchety man; 
he’s a man that has his own ideas.” 
“We all have, I suppose,” said Mrs. Mowbray, 
making a feeble attempt to stem the tide of popular 
opinion, that seemed to be running so strong against 
Mr. Mark Chesterfield. 
“ Oh, yes 1” said the Widow Muuger; “ but there’s 
a difference in ideas, you know. Now Mark is very 
trying about a house. They do say he worried your 
dear Priscilla Capsicum into her grave.” 
“ Ah—h—h !” groaned Mrs. Wing, helping herself 
to a pinch of thinly-shaved pink-smoked beef. 
“ He’s an excellent man !” said Mrs. Munger. “ I 
haven’t a word to say against him ;- but I wouldn’t let 
a daughter of mine become his wife—no, not if I 
buried ’em first!” 
“ There isn’t much danger of that,” thought Mrs. 
Mowbray, who was fully cognizant of the fact that the 
three Misses Munger were red-haired, freckled, and 
otherwise not particularly qualified to attract the at¬ 
tention of gentlemeu in search of matrimonial partners. 
But she didn’t say so; and just then the attention of the 
tea-drinking cabal rvas called to the sight of the new 
minister, crossing the street to call on Benetta Jones, 
and the conversation flowed into another channel. 
Mrs. Mowbray went home and reported the whole 
discussion to her daughter Sybil, a plump, brown¬ 
haired girl of eighteen, with large, almond-shaped 
eyes, a short, straight nose, and a chin which, round 
and dimpled though it was, expressed character iu no 
common degree. 
“ My dear, do you think you are wise?” asked Mrs. 
Mowbray, hesitatingly—for she was one of those 
human dry leaves who are blown hither and yon by 
every gale of opinion. 
“ I’ll risk it, mother,” said cheerful Sybil. “ No¬ 
body can pretend to perfection in this world, and I 
like Mr. Chesterfield.” 
So the next month there was a wedding in St. 
Aloysius’ Church, and Sybil Mowbray became Mrs. 
Mark Chesterfield. 
Mr. Chesterfield was a tall, well-made man, with 
pleasant blue eyes, an abundance of chestnut hair, 
and leg-of-mutton side whiskers, a la Anglaise. 
Sybil, in her secret girlish heart, thought him a 
second Apollo. 
The wedding tour to Niagara Falls, Montreal and 
Quebec was delightful; so was the home-coming to 
the pretty, cheerful house in Larkspur street. 
“ But there’s no piano, Mark,” said Sybil, as she 
flitted in and out of the rooms. “ Oh, you must get 
me a piano !” 
Mr. Chesterfield looked dubious. 
“ I am not a millionaire, my love,” said he ; “ I am 
only a man on a salary. Pianos are expensive.” 
“ Does it cost so much to live ?” asked Sybil, the 
current of her enthusiasm somewhat chilled. 
“I have made a study of these things, Mrs. Ches¬ 
terfield,” said her husband, sitting down before the 
fire which made the October twilight so ruddy and 
cheerful. “Domestic economy, in its way, is quite as 
much of a science as political economy. I have ap¬ 
portioned things exactly. I know to a ‘ T ’ how much 
it costs me to live. I know the exact correspondence 
between my income and my outgo. I know where 
every penny goes, and how much it represents. I 
have ascertained—-What is it, Gretchen ? Tea ready ? 
Allow me to give you my arm, Sybil, my love !” 
Bright and early the next morning, the butcher 
called for orders. 
Sybil was about to lay out the bill of fare for the 
day, when Mr. Chesterfield came out of the dining¬ 
room, his dressing-gown skirts streaming “like a 
meteor to the troubled air.” 
“ My dear, pray excuse me !” said Mr. Chesterfield; 
“/always attend to these things. In our circum¬ 
stances the strictest economy is necessary.” 
Sybil went back to the parlor somewhat mortified. 
“ This carpet is a little worn,” said she to her 
mother, who had come around to pass an hour or two 
with them. “ I was thinking that it would be a good 
plan to put it in our bed-room, and buy a new one for 
the parlor. Worn Brussels is of all carpets the 
shabbiest.” 
But Mr. Chesterfield vetoed this proposition at once. 
“ Costs too much, my dear—costs too much,” he 
said. “ I have studied this sort of thing, and—” 
“ Mark,” said Mrs. Chesterfield, “ how much is your 
income ?” 
Mr., Chesterfield laughed. 
“Now, my dear,” said he, “you are getting beyond 
your province.” 
“No; but really! ” 
“ Beally, dearest, it needn’t concern you in the 
least! ” answered he, lightly. 
And Sybil, a little hurt, asked no more. 
A month went by—two months—three months— 
and Sybil came to her husband. 
“ Mark,” said she, I am not satisfied with the way 
things are going.” 
“ Not satisfied, my love?” 
“I want to keep house, Mark. As it is, I am only 
a mere figure-head at your table. Won’t you let me 
try?” 
“Little puss, what do you know about housekeep¬ 
ing ?” demanded Mark, satirically. 
“But I could learn. Just for one year! ” 
“ You’ll ruin me, Sybil.” 
“If I do, we’ll break up house, and I’ll go out as 
housekeeper somewhere else, • until I have earned 
wages enough to set you right again! Just give me 
the monthly sum you expend for our bills, and let me 
deal it out! ” 
“Well, well, if you insist upon it. But I’m per¬ 
fectly certain you’ll be bankrupt before the quarter is 
out.” 
“ Try me; that’s all! ” 
As the time went by, the Chesterfield table was 
more amply supplied than ever with the delicacies of 
the season. Little dainties made their appearance at 
which Mr. Chesterfield opened his eyes. 
“ Ruinous—perfectly ruinous!” he commented 
within himself. “ She’ll be coming to me in tears, 
presently, to settle the extra bills; but she never 
would be satisfied until she had tried.the experiment.” 
But, although he waited- patiently for the briny tears 
and the file of tradesmen’s bills, they never came. And 
at the expiration of six months he came home, just as 
six porters were staggering up his front steps, having 
a superb piano on their shoulders. 
“ llello! ” cried he. “ Some mistake! ” 
“No mistake at all, my dear,” answered the voice 
of Mrs. Chesterfield from the parlor window. “ It-’s 
ours. I bought it yesterday at Tune & Tinkle’s.” 
“And who is to pay for it?” roared Mr. Chester¬ 
field, the big veins in his forehead growing tense as 
ropes. 
“ It’s already paid for, Mark. J settled that,” said 
the lady, calmly. 
“ May I ask where you got the money ?” demanded 
her husband, with dangerous politeness. 
“Oh, certainly,” answered Sybil. “I saved it out 
of the housekeeping money.” 
“ Impossible! ” 
“ I’ll show you my account, dear, by-aud-by— 
square up to date.” 
And she did so. Mr. Chesterfield found it difficult 
to believe that a woman could pay the household bill 
of their establishment, and save money, out of a hun¬ 
dred and twenty-five dollars a month. 
“I saw to things myself,” said Sybil. “ The cook 
didn’t like it, and gave warning. I cooked myself 
until I could get some one to take her place; and I 
have now a tidy little German woman, who is not 
above being dictated to by me. ! discharged the baker, 
who gave us poor bread at fabulous prices, and did the 
baking myself, twice a week. I checked off the gro¬ 
cer’s account personally, and asked him what he meant 
by charging us with two boxes of raisins when I only 
ordered one. Since that time his bills have been ma¬ 
terially less. I weighed the meat myself and com¬ 
pared it with the butcher’s bill. The discrepancy was 
so noticeable that I changed butchers. The second 
month our expenses were full a third less, and they 
have gone on decreasing ever since. For the future, 
Mark,” she added, “ I will be satisfied with a hundred 
dollars a month for housekeeping money, and engage 
to buy a new parlor carpet out of it before the year 
has expired.” 
“ My dear,” said Mr. Chesterfield, rapturously, “ you 
are a perfect financier! ” 
“ Every woman is,” answered Sybil, if she can only 
get a chance. And now, let me sit down and play 
you a tune on my new piano.” 
And the next tea company at Mrs. Popham Wing’s 
came to the unanimous verdict that Sybil Chesterfield 
was a happy wife, in spite of their prognostications. 
