no answer, but banged away.

"'Tom,' I shouted, at last; 'Tom, get up! Let me in! I want to see you;
it's important. Let me in!'

"A voice from a half-opened door informed me that if I did not stop the
noise I should be pitched down the stairs. Still, I banged away at
Tom's door. There was no response, and I grew sick at heart.

"Then, just as I was about to go away, a door leading up to the attic
opened, and Tom appeared, clad in street clothing--overcoat and all.

"'What's up?' he inquired, with chattering teeth.

"'Tom!' I exclaimed, reaching his side at a bound, 'I want to talk with
you. Take me into your place. I'm in trouble. I want to sleep in your
room with you. Take me in.'

"'Come upstairs,' he said, calmly.

"I followed him up to the bare and chilly attic, where he lighted a
candle, and offered me a seat--on the floor. I told him my agonized
tale of woe, but he did not show the sympathy I had anticipated; in
fact, he laughed, softly and long.

"'You can sleep with me, if you insist,' he said. 'I've a Persian rug
that will almost cover us both, and I'll share this pillow with you.
Then, here's a single portiere--not very warm--and two New York
_Heralds_ and a Sunday _Times_ that will help out. But, in fact, I'd
rather not entertain you to-night. I'd rather you'd go out and walk the
street, or sleep in the Park. I couldn't sleep a wink myself with you
alongside of me, and neither could you.'

"'But your room,' I gasped; 'what's the matter with your room?'

"'I've been turned out of my room,' he said. 'I'm allowed to sleep
here, to-night; and I don't know how it will be to-morrow night--can't
tell.'

"'Well, I'll bunk in with you, here.'

"'No,' he rejoined, heartlessly; 'on the whole, I don't want you. Get
out and walk the street, or try someone else.'

"'Then lend me some money. I'll go to a hotel.'

"'If I had any money, do you think I should be sleeping here,
to-night?'

"'I suppose not,' I sighed. 'Well, I think I'll go. You won't help me?'

"'Not this night,' he said, grimly. 'Get out! But I don't want you to
gabble about where you found me sleeping.'

"I left him, deeply grieved by his meanness, which I ascribed to an old
jealousy of the years gone by, when he had been attentive to the
unmarried Mrs. Milner, and had found me in his way. I had not thought
he would have cherished this spite through the years, but, resolved
never to ask a favor again, I left him, and went out into the s