Mrs. Grant contemplated with solemn gleeful satisfaction the overwhelming grandeur of the disaster that had happened to her father. The active old man, a continual figure of the streets, had been cut off in a moment from the world and condemned for life to a mattress. She sincerely imagined herself to be filled with proper grief; but an aesthetic appreciation of the theatrical effectiveness of the misfortune was certainly stronger in her than any other feeling. Observing that Mrs. Lessways wept, she also drew out a handkerchief. "I'm wishful for you to count the money," said Mrs. Grant. "I wouldn't like there to be any--" "Nay, that I'll not!" protested Mrs. Lessways. Mrs. Grant's pressing duties necessitated her immediate departure. Mrs. Lessways ceremoniously insisted on her leaving by the front door. "I don't know where you'll find another rent-collector that's worth his salt--in this town," observed Mrs. Grant, on the doorstep. "I can't think _what_ you'll do, Mrs. Lessways!" "I shall collect my rents myself," was the answer. When Mrs. Grant had crossed the road and taken the bricked path leading to the paralytic's house, Mrs. Lessways slowly shut the door and bolted it, and then said to Hilda: "Well, my girl, I do think you might have tried to show just a little more feeling!" They were close together in the narrow lobby, of which the heavy pulse was the clock's ticking. Hilda replied: "You surely aren't serious about collecting those rents yourself, are you, mother?" "Serious? Of course I'm serious!" said Mrs. Lessways. II "Why shouldn't I collect the rents myself?" asked Mrs. Lessways.