him, and to forget him
before he has ever reached the bottom.

This torrent of sarcasm brought out Paul's real nature. His face
flushed, and rage began to gain the mastery over him. "Can you not
work?" he asked. "Why do you not do something instead of talking so
much?"

"That is not at all the same thing," answered she coolly. "I was not
made for work."

Paul made a threatening gesture. "You wretch!" exclaimed he.

"You are wrong," she replied. "I am not a wretch; I am simply hungry."

There seemed every prospect of an angry scene, when a slight sound
attracted the attention of the disputants, and, turning round, they saw
an old man standing upon the threshold of their open door. He was tall,
but stooped a good deal. He had high, thick brows, and a red nose; a
long, thick, grizzly beard covered the rest of his countenance. He wore
a pair of spectacles with colored glasses, which, to a great extent,
concealed the expression of his face. His whole attire indicated extreme
poverty. He wore a greasy coat, much frayed and torn at the pockets, and
which had carried away with it marks of all the walls against which it
had been rubbed when he had indulged a little too freely in the cheerful
glass. He seemed to belong to that class who consider it a work of
supererogation to disrobe before going to bed, and who just turn in on
such spot as the fancy of the moment may dictate. Paul and Rose both
recognized the old man from having continually met him when ascending
or descending the staircase, and knew that he rented the back attic, and
was called Daddy Tantaine. In an instant the idea flashed across Paul's
mind that the dilapidated state of the partition permitted every word
spoken in one attic to be overheard in the other, and this did not tend
to soothe his exasperated feelings.

"What do you want here, sir?" asked he angrily. "And, pray, who gave you
permission to enter my room without leave?"

The old man did not seem at all put out by the threatening language of
his questioner. "I should be telling a fib," answered he calmly, "if I
were to tell you that, being in my own room and hearing you quarrelling,
I did not hear every word of what you have been saying."

"Sir!"

"Stop a bit, and don't be in such a hurry, my young friend. You seem
disposed to quarrel, and, on my faith, I am not surprised; for when
there is no corn in the manger, the best tempered horse will bite and
kick."

He uttered these words in the mo