here," she resumed; "his being out of work in the autumn, threw us all
back, and we've got nothing to depend on but his earnings. The family
that he's in now, sir, don't give him very good pay,--only twenty
dollars a month, and his board,--but it was the best chance he could
get, and it was either go to Baltimore with them, or stay at home and
starve, and so he went, sir. It's been a hard time with us, and one
of the children is sick, now, with a fever, and we don't hardly know
how to make out a living. And so, sir, I have come here this evening,
leaving the children alone, to ask you if you wouldn't be kind enough
to wait a little longer, and we'll hope to make it right with you in
the end."

"Mrs. Miller," said Dr. Renton, with stern composure, "I have no wish
to question the truth of any statement you may make; but I must tell
you plainly, that I can't afford to let my houses for nothing. I told
you a month ago, that if you couldn't pay me my rent, you must vacate
the premises. You know very well that there are plenty of tenants who
are able and willing to pay when the money comes due. You _know_ that."

He paused as he said this, and, glancing at her, saw her pale lips falter.
It shook the cruelty of his purpose a little, and he had a vague feeling
that he was doing wrong. Not without a proud struggle, during which
no word was spoken, could he beat it down. Meanwhile, the phantom had
advanced a pace toward the centre of the room.

"That is the state of the matter, ma'am," he resumed, coldly. "People
who will not pay me my rent must not live in my tenements. You must
move out. I have no more to say."

"Dr. Renton," she said, faintly, "I have a sick child,--how can I move