“Underhill was laid up with a 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; but turned them out without ceremony.”
“Is it possible?” asked Mrs. Crump, uneasily.
“And there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. I can't but feel anxious about to-morrow, Mary.”
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 the meaning of 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. Crump,” said he, affably, “I trust you and your worthy wife are in good health.”
“That blessing, at least, is continued to us,” said the cooper, gravely.
“And how comfortable you're looking too, eh! It makes an old bachelor, like me, feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary room with such a scene of comfort as this. You've got a comfortable home, and dog-cheap, too. All my other tenants are grumbling to think you don't have to pay any more for such superior accommodations. I've about made up my mind that I must ask you twenty-five dollars a quarter, hereafter.”
All this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less bitter.