"Perhaps you are doing him an injustice."

"I am afraid not. Did you never hear how he treated the Underhills?"

"How?"

"Underhill was laid up with rheumatic fever for three months. The
consequence was that when quarter day came round he was in about the
same situation with ourselves--a little worse, even, for his wife was
sick also. But, though Colman was aware of the circumstances, he had no
pity; he turned them out without ceremony."

"Is it possible?" asked Mrs. Harding, uneasily.

"And there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. I can't but
feel anxious about to-morrow, Martha."

At this moment, verifying an old adage, which will perhaps occur to the
reader, who should knock but Mr. Colman himself. Both the cooper and his
wife had an instinctive foreboding as to his visit.

He came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. No
one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that lay
veiled under his velvety softness of manner.

"Good-evening, Mr. Harding," he said, affably. "I trust you and your
excellent wife are in good health."

"That blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper, gravely.