rning 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
extravagances--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 and style.

"Augusta Lawson, listen to me," his voice was 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