“I have not a dollar this day to buy bread,” she answered.

A frown gathered on Mr. Elder’s brow, as he remarked:  “I suppose you recollect the arrangement made between us when you first hired the room from me.”

“What arrangement was that?” she enquired in an absent manner.

“That on you failing to pay the rent, I should have the power to resume possession of the room, without giving you notice to leave.”

“I recollect,” she said.

“Well, in accordance with our arrangements, I shall require that you vacate the room to-day, as I can procure another tenant, who will be able to pay the rent promptly.”

“Do you mean that I must leave to-day,” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “I desire to have the room renovated at once.”

“Where can I go to without money,” she enquired, in a tone more like as if she was addressing herself than speaking to him.

“I really cannot tell my good, woman,” he answered, “I am sorry for your position, but cannot afford to lose the rent of my room, I am compelled to pay my taxes, and support myself by the money I receive from rent.”

“I cannot leave to-day,” Mrs. Wentworth cried in a despairing tone.  “I cannot leave to-day.  Oh, sir! look at my child lying on that wretched bed, and tell me, if you can have the heart to turn me out, homeless, friendless and alone.”

“My good Woman,” he answered.  “I cannot help your misfortunes, nor can I do anything to assist you.  If you can pay the rent, I have no objection to your remaining, but if you can not, I will be compelled to get another tenant who will be able.”

“Sir,” she remarked, speaking slowly.  “I am a woman with two children, alone in this State.  My husband and protector is now pining in a Yankee prison, a sacrifice on the altar of his country.  Let me ask you as a man, and perhaps a father, to pause ere you turn a helpless woman from the shelter of your property.  You appear wealthy, and the sum charged for the rent would make but little difference to you, if it was never paid.  Oh! do not eject us from this room.  My child lies there parched with fever, and to remove her may be fatal.”

“There is no necessity for any appeals to me,” he replied.  “If I were to give way to such extravagant requests in your case, I should be necessitated to do so in others, and the result would be, that I should find myself sheltering all my tenants, without receiving any pay for house rent.  The idea cannot be entertained for a moment.”

“Let your own heart speak,” she said, “and not the promptings of worldly thoughts.  All those who rent your houses are not situated as I am.  They are at home among friends, who will aid and succor them, if ever necessity overtook them.  I am far away from home and friends.  There is no one in this town that I can call upon for assistance, and even now, my children are without food for want of funds to purchase it.  Do not add to my wretchedness by depriving them of shelter.  Let me know that if we are to die of starvation, a roof, at least, will cover our bodies.”