“Some time before my son married you, I gave up all my business to him—­I came to live here amongst trees and flowers—­I gave up all the lucrative business I had carried on to my son, partly because my health was failing, and I longed to live with nature, away from the scenes of traffic; but more especially because I loved my son with no common love, and I trusted to him as to a second self.  I was not disappointed—­we had one purse and one heart before he married you; he never questioned me concerning what I spent in charity—­he never asked to limit in any way my expenditure—­he loved you, and I made no conditions concerning what amount of income I was to receive, but still I left him in entire possession of my business when he married you.  I trusted to your fair, young face, that you would not controvert my wishes—­that you would join me in my schemes of charity.”

“And have I not?” interrupted Mrs. Lawson, in a sharp voice, though the habitual smile still graced her lips; “do I not subscribe to, I don’t know how many, charitable institutions?  Charity, indeed—­there’s enough spent in charity by myself and my husband.  But I wish to stop extravagance—­it is only extravagance to spend so much on charity as you would do if you could; therefore, you shall not have any money just now.”

Mrs. Lawson was one of those women who can cheerfully expend a most lavish sum on a ball, a dress, or any other method by which rank and luxury dissipate their abundance, but who are very economical, and talk much of extravagance when money is demanded for purposes not connected with display or style.

“Augusta Lawson, listen to me”—­his voice quivering with passion—­“my own wants are very few; in food, in clothes, in all points my expenditure is trifling.  I am not extravagant in my demands for the poor, either.  All I have expended in charity during the few years since you came here, is but an insignificant amount as contrasted with the income which I freely gave up to my son and you; therefore, some money for the poor woman who is waiting, I shall now have; give me some shillings, for God’s sake, and let me go.”  He advanced closer to her, and held out his hand.

“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Lawson; “I am mistress, here—­I am determined to stop extravagance.  You give too much to common beggars; I am determined to stop it—­do not ask me any further.”

A kind of convulsion passed over John Lawson’s thin face; but he pressed his hand closely on his breast, and was silent for some moments.

“I was once rich, I believe.  Yes—­it is not a dream,” he said, in a slow, self-communing voice.  “Gold and silver, once ye were plenty with me; my hands—­my pockets were filled—­guineas, crowns, shillings—­now I have not one penny to give to that starving, dying woman, whose face of misery might soften the very stones she looks on—­not one penny.”

“Augusta,” he said, turning suddenly toward her, after a second pause of silence, “give me only one shilling, and I shall not think of the bitter words you have just said.”