"If I were poor!" exclaimed the old man, betrayed into his customary whine; "I am poor; indeed, I am very poor."
"You!" repeated Mrs. Codman, incredulously. "Why, you must receive a thousand dollars a year from this building."
"Yet I—I am poor," persisted Peter. "I am only an agent. I—I do not own this building; at least—I mean—there are heavy incumbrances on it; I have to pay away nearly every dollar I receive."
"Can you let me remain a month longer for the same rent as heretofore?" asked Mrs. Codman, anxiously.
"I—I couldn't do it," said Peter, hastily. "Either you must pay two dollars a week, or move out."
Mrs. Codman hesitated.
She went to her bureau, and found that she had between five and six dollars remaining in her purse. This would enable her, in addition to what she could earn by sewing, to get along for a month.
"Very well, sir," said she, "I must stay a month longer, at any rate. I must for my boy's sake."
"Have you a son?" asked Peter, desirous of learning from the mother's lips that the blow had struck home.