“I was under no impression at all concerning you. Once for all, Anne, you must understand that it is not my intention to give away the money for which I have worked to people who have been idle.” “I have not been idle,” she said; “and you forget that I am your cousin, that our mothers——” “I know all that,” he said, interrupting her; “your people and you had your own way to make in life, and so had I and my people.” “But if you do not help me”—she burst out, for she could bear it no longer—“if you do not help me, I shall starve.” “I really don’t see what claim you have upon me.” “I am your cousin, and I am old, and I shall starve,” she repeated. “I must have money to-day. If I don’t take back money this afternoon my heart will break.” Again his fingers went for a moment in the direction of the cheque-book and tantalized her. She stood up and looked at him entreatingly. “I am not speaking only for myself,” she pleaded, “but for another——” and she broke down. “For whom else are you speaking?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers. “I do not wish to tell you, William.” “For whom else?” he repeated, glaring at her. “For one who is very dear to me, and who will starve, too, unless you help us. William, I entreat you to remember——” “But who is this pauper you are helping, and why should I help her, too?” “It is not a pauper,” she said indignantly. “It is some one who is dearer than all the world to me; and, once more, I entreat you to help us.” “Well, but who is it?—is it a child?” “No,” she answered, in a low voice, full of infinite tenderness, and she clasped her hands and let her chin fall on her breast. “Who is it?” he asked sternly. “It is my husband”—and almost a sob broke from her. “Your husband!—I thought he was dead?” “Mr. Baines is dead—long ago; but—I have married again.” “Married again?” he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears. “Yes, married again, and that is why I implore you to help me, so that I may give the young, tender life that is joined to mine the comforts that are necessary to him,” she said, with supplicating misery. “Do you mean to say”—and he looked at her as if he thought she was mad—“that some young man has married you?” “Yes,” she answered, in a low voice; “we have been married nearly eight months.” “And has he got any money?—or does he do anything for a living?” “He is a most brilliant writer, and has given the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Fisher; but he has been ill, and he requires country air and nourishment and luxuries—and I implore you to help me to preserve this young and beautiful life that has been confided to me.” “Is he a cripple or mad?” She looked up in astonishment. “He is a fine, tall young man!” she said, with proud indignation. “I should not have married a cripple, William, and I have already told you that he is a writer on _The Centre_, though he is not able at present to do his talents justice.” “So you have to keep him?”