Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

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“What’s the price?” I enquired.

“Got an old coat?” was my only answer. “Don’t want money.”

My husband was the possessor of a coat that had seen pretty good

service, and which he had not worn for some time. In fact, it had

been voted superannuated, and consigned to a dark corner of the

clothes-press. The thought of this garment came very naturally into

my mind, and with the thought a pleasant exhilaration of feeling,

for I already saw the vases on my mantles.

“Any old clothes?” repeated the vender of china ware.

Without a word I left the dining room, and hurried up to where our

large clothes-press stood, in the passage above. From this I soon

abstracted the coat, and then descended with quick steps.

The dull face of the old man brightened, the moment his eyes fell

upon the garment. He seized it with a nervous movement, and seemed

to take in its condition at a single glance. Apparently, the

examination was not very satisfactory, for he let the coat fall, in