In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused,
something struck by the excited appearance of his father.

"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a
poor woman whom I wish to relieve--will you give me some money for
her?"

"Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta? You know
I have given her the management of the money-matters of the
establishment, she is so very clever and economical."

"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from
me--she saves from the starving poor--she saves, that she may waste
large sums on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for
money--give me a few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for
what was his own--for what he toiled all his youth--for what he gave
up out of trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of
asking and begging--ay, sick--sick; but give me some shillings now."

"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and
glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.

"Henry," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing at that instant with a face
inflamed with anger--"Henry, _I_ would not give your father any money
to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away."

Henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively
to Mrs. Lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was
a true index of his yielding and easily-governed nature. His features