"I had my misgivings," cried the landlady, tartly, "notwithstanding your boast of being connected with the rich Mr. Granite. Allow me to say, sir," she continued, seating herself upon a chair, "I've just sent for a hackman to take your trunks away, and I mean to retain the furniture until some arrangement is made."
"May I come in?" murmured a small, but apparently well-known voice at the door, from the alacrity with which Henry's poor, young wife rushed to open it, admitting old Sterling, the clerk.
"Let me look in your eyes," cried she; "is there any hope?"
Sterling shook his head.
"No—no more!"
"Heaven help us!" she exclaimed, as she tottered back to her seat.
"Heaven has helped you, my bright bird," said Sterling. "I only shook my head to make your joy the greater."
"What say you?" exclaimed Travers; "has that stony heart relented?"
"It is not a stony heart," replied Sterling; "I am ashamed of you for saying so. It's a good, generous heart. It has made mine glow with long-forgotten joy this day."
"Does he give us relief?" inquired Henry.