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."

"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 p