shilling, and I shall not think of the
bitter words you have just said?"

"No; not one shilling," answered Mrs. Lawson, turning over a leaf of her
novel.

"One sixpence, then--one small, poor sixpence. You do not know how even
a sixpence can gladden the black heart of poverty, when starvation is
come. One sixpence, I say--let me have it quickly."

"Not one farthing I shall give you. I do beg you will trouble me no
further."

Mrs. Lawson turned her back partially to him, and fixed all her
attention on the novel.

"Woman! I have cringed and begged; I would not so beg for myself, from
you--no; I would lie down and die of want before I would, on my own
account, request of you--of your hard heart--one bit of bread. All the
finery that surrounds you is mine--it was purchased with my money,
though now you call it yours; and, usurping the authority of both master
and mistress here, you--in what you please to call your economical
management--dole out shillings to me when the humor seizes you, or
refuse me, as now, when it pleases you. But, woman, listen to me. I
shall never request you for one farthing of money again. No necessity of
others shall make me do it. You shall never again refuse me, for I shall
never give you the opportunity."

He turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion
of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly.

In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused,
something struck by the excited appearance of his father.

"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a poor
woman whom I wish to relieve--will you give me some money for her?"

"Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta. You know I have
given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she
is so very clever and economical."

"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me; she
saves from the starving poor; she saves, that she may waste large sums
on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for money; give me a
few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for what was his
own--for what he toiled all his youth--for what he gave up out of
trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of asking and
begging--ay, sick--sick; but give me some shillings now."

"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and
glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.

"Henry," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing