Mr. Pottle sat beside the bedside of Mrs. Pottle, sadly going over a
column of figures, as she lay there, wan, weak, tear-marred, sipping
pale tea.
He cleared his throat.
"As retiring treasurer of the Granville Pageant," he announced, "I
regret to report as follows:
Receipts from tickets $1,250.00
Expenses, including rent, music,
scenery, costumes, and damages, $1,249.17
"This leaves a total net profit of eighty-three cents."
Mrs. Pottle wept softly into her pillow. A whistle outside caused her to
lift a woeful head.
"There's the postman," she said, feebly. "Another bill, I suppose. We
won't even make eighty-three cents."
Mr. Pottle returned with the letter; he opened it; he read it; he
whistled; he read it again; then he read it aloud.
"Dear Mrs. Pottle:
"I never laughed at anything in my life till I saw your
pageant. I pay for what I get.
"Yours,
"FELIX WINTERBOTTOM.
"P. S. Inclosed is my check for one thousand dollars
for the Day Nursery."
Mrs. Pottle sat up in bed. She smiled.