to bandy words, so I, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! am
settlin' up her affairs for her. Be kind enough to say how much it is
you are ready to sell your claim to Christian charity for? How much is
it you ain't willin' to lend to the Lord on Miss Lang's account?" She
plucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into her
stocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll of
well-worn _greenbacks_.

Mrs. Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and Martha
Slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She did
not, however, surrender the bills at once.

"I'll take a receipt," she quietly observed, and then sat back with an
air of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keeper
nervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for a
pen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottle
of ink, her indignation at Martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audible
mumblings.

"Impudence! What right have you to come here, holding me to account?
I've my own way of doing good--"

Mrs. Slawson shrugged. "Your own way? I warrant you have! Nobody else'd
recognize it. I'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncet
in five years. Come now, do you?"

"God doesn't take into account the amount one gives," announced Mrs.
Daggett authoritatively.

"P'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, He keeps a pretty close
watch on what we have left--or I miss my guess. An' now, Miss Claire
darlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that this
generous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as she
calls it, we'll be goin'. An expressman will be 'round here the first
thing in the mornin' for Miss Lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, Mrs.
Daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. Good-night to you,
ma'am, an' I wish you luck."

Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed. She had a dim
vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only
to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. Of fierce
blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. Of street-lamps gleaming
meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in
a vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door,
the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of
a plain, wholesome haven--rest.

Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous cla