fulness as troubles gathered around _her_ little
fireside. Lewis had striven with superhuman strength to increase his
slender capital, but in vain. Cora, whose stout heart never failed her,
retrenched here and there, deprived herself almost of the necessaries of
life to try and stay the storm. When her husband remained at the office
instead of returning to tea, Cora's evening meal was a slice of dry
bread with a cup of weak Bohea. For him she prepared some dish set by
from dinner, which she had seen him relish.

Turning down the lamp that the oil might not waste, she would sit
wondering how she could help her darling Lewis. She knew how much he
would object to have her apply to her mother, and, hating to grieve that
tender parent's heart, she wrote cheerfully and hopefully when her heart
was weighed down by anxiety. Lewis was growing thin, his buoyant spirit
was gone, and she wept over that, indeed. Maggie dreamed not of the
cause, but she, too, remarked the change in both, and felt doubly uneasy
about these two so dear to her. She questioned Cora closely; but Cora
was a sealed book this time. Lewis was peculiarly sensitive upon the
subject of his poverty, and could not bear the thoughts of the triumph
it would occasion Laura when she knew that his wife was really in
distress. Slowly, but alas too surely, the little sum diminished, and
Cora would soon lose her dignity of banker. She opened the drawer and
counted the remainder with a deep sigh, and began to feel how terrible
it was to be poor. Not that she repined for herself--oh no!--but the
idea of her husband's wan face was like a dagger in her heart. She
looked around her; there was nothing within her modest dwelling that
could be parted with, nothing but her mother's gift, and she knew that
Lewis would not hear of that. In a few days, she would be forced to tell
him that the drawer was empty, and not a cent left to provide for even
their scanty wants. She buried her face in her hands.

She did not see the servant enter, and Nora stood some time at the door
watching her with a look of sympathy, for she knew a portion of her
mistress's sorrow, and felt it, too.

"Won't I put on some more coal, Mrs. Clavering?" at length she asked.

Cora looked up; the fire was quite out, and it was a cold night, but she
had not heeded it.

"Never mind, Nora; my husband will soon be home now, and it would be
useless. You know he never sits up long after he returns."

"But it is a