that
sparkled from the whiteness of his face in his eyes.

"Be patient with us, sir," she continued; "we are poor, but we mean to
pay you; and we can't move now in this cold weather; please, don't be
hard with us, sir."

The fury now burst out on his face in a red and angry glow, and the
words came.

"Now, attend to me!" He rose to his feet. "I will not hear any more from
you. I know nothing of your poverty, nor of the condition of your
family. All I know is that you owe me three months' rent, and that you
can't or won't pay me. I say, therefore, leave the premises to people
who can and will. You have had your legal notice; quit my house
to-morrow; if you don't, your furniture shall be put in the street. Mark
me--to-morrow!"

The phantom had rushed into the centre of the room. Standing, face to
face with him--dilating--blackening--its whole form shuddering with a
fury to which his own was tame--the semblance of a shriek upon its
flashing lips, and on its writhing features, and an unearthly anger
streaming from its bright and terrible eyes--it seemed to throw down,
with its tossing arms, mountains of hate and malediction on the head of
him whose words had smitten poverty and suffering, and whose heavy hand
was breaking up the barriers of a home.

Dr. Renton sank again into his chair. His tenant--not a woman!--not a
sister in humanity!--but only his tenant; she sat crushed and frightened
by the wall. He knew it vaguely. Conscience was battling in his heart
with the stubborn devils that had entered there. The phantom stood
before him, like a dark cloud in the image of a man. But its darkness
was lightening slowly, and its ghostly anger had passed away.

The poor woman, paler than before, had sat mute and trembling, with all
her hopes ruined. Yet her desperation forbade her to abandon the chances
of his mercy, and she now said:

"Dr. Renton, you surely don't mean what you have told me. Won't you bear
with me a little longer, and we will yet make it all right with you?"

"I have given you my answer," he returned, coldly; "I have no more to
add. I never take back anything I say--never!"

It was true. He never did--never! She half rose from her seat as if to
go; but weak and sickened with the bitter result of her visit, she sunk
down again with her head bowed. There was a pause. Then, solemnly
gliding across the lighted room, the phantom stole to her side with a
glory of compassion on its wasted features. Tenderly,