rugs were scattered on the highly-polished floor, and the general effect
was funereal, for the ebony bedstead had a French canopy of black satin
embroidered with gold. By the window stood his writing-desk, at which his
steward and his secretary sat when they had business with him; and on the
table by the window in the bay, was a bowl of flowers, the only bright
spot of color in the room.

His daughter came unannounced, as she always did. He was warned of her
approach by the frou-frou of her silk, an evidence of refined femininity
that for a long time past had been absent from Asherton Hall. The old man
grunted at the sound, and stared straight ahead out of the window. He did
not turn until she stood by his bedside, and placed her gloved hand upon
his cold, bony fingers.

"Father, I have come to see you."

She kissed him on the brow, and his eyes darted an upward look, keen and
penetrating as an eagle's.

"Then you want something. The usual?"

"Yes, father--money."

This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but
each time with a bitterer spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The
result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser's hand tightened
upon his gold.

She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During
occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was
cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of
wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that
it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened
that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his
grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young
scamp.

"How much is it now?" asked the miser.

"A large sum, father," faltered Mrs. Swinton. "A thousand dollars! You
know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the
Mission Hall."

"What!" screamed the old man, in horror. "A thousand dollars! It's a
lie."

"You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a
long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had
given--"

"Like his insolence."

"And you promised a thousand dollars."

"A thousand? Nothing of the sort," snarled the miser, scratching the
coverlet with hooked fingers--always a sign of irritation with him. "I
said one, not one thousand."

She knew all his tricks. To avoid payment, he would always p