'' She concealed her fright and her shame as
best she could and went on quarreling more viciously
than ever. But he presently returned to the attack.
Said he:
``Your feet hurt you. I'm sure they do. Now that
I think of it, you walk that way.''
``I suppose I deserve my fate,'' said she. ``When a
woman marries beneath her she must expect insult and
low conversation.''
``You must cure your feet,'' said he. ``I'll not live
in the house with a person who is made fiendish by corns.
I think it's only corns. I see no signs of bunions.''
``You brute!'' cried his wife, rushing from the room.
But when they met again, he at once resumed the
subject, telling her just how she could cure herself--and
he kept on telling her, she apparently ignoring but
secretly acting on his advice. He knew what he was
about, and her feet grew better, grew well--and she
was happier than she had been since girlhood when she
began ruining her feet with tight shoes.
Six months after the marriage, Presbury and his wife
were getting on about as comfortably as it is given to
average humanity to get on in this world of incessant
struggle between uncomfortable man and his uncomfortable
environment.
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