'My brother? What d'you mean?' cried Mrs Clinton, firing up. 'That's no brother of mine. I 'aven't got a brother.' 'It's your brother and my brother. Be good to him.' 'I tell you it isn't my brother,' repeated Mrs Clinton; 'my brother Adolphus died when he was two years old, and that's the only brother I ever 'ad.' Mr Clinton merely looked at her with his usual gentle expression, and she asked angrily,-- 'What 'ave you brought 'im 'ere for?' ''E is 'ungry, and I am going to give 'im food; 'e is 'omeless, and I am going to give 'im shelter.' 'Shelter? Where?' 'Here, in my 'ouse, in my bed.' 'In my bed!' screamed Mrs Clinton. 'Not if I know it! 'Ere, you,' she said, addressing the man, and pushing past her husband. 'Out you get! I'm not going to 'ave tramps and loafers in my 'ouse. Get out!' Mrs Clinton was an energetic woman, and a strong one. Catching hold of her husband's stick, and flourishing it, she opened the front door. 'Amy! Amy!' expostulated Mr Clinton. 'Now, then, you be quiet. I've 'ad about enough of you! Get on out, will you?' The man made a rush for the door, and as he scrambled down the steps she caught him a smart blow on the back, and slammed the door behind him. Then, returning to the sitting-room, she sank panting on a chair. Mr Clinton slowly recovered from his surprise. 'Woman,' he said, this being now his usual mode of address--he spoke solemnly and sadly--'you 'ave cast out your brother, you 'ave cast out your husband, you 'ave cast out yourself.' 'Don't talk to me!' said Mrs Clinton, very wrathfully. 'It's bed time now; come along upstairs.' 'I will not come to your bed again. You 'ave refused it to one who was better than I; and why should I 'ave it? Go, woman; go and leave me.' 'Now, then, don't come trying your airs on me,' said Mrs Clinton. 'They won't wash. Come up to bed.' 'I tell you I will not,' replied Mr Clinton, decisively. 'Go, woman, and leave me!' 'Well, if I do, I sha'n't leave the light; so there!' she said spitefully, and, taking the lamp, left Mr Clinton in darkness. Mrs Clinton was not henceforth on the very best of terms with her husband, but he always treated her with his accustomed gentleness, though he insisted on spending his nights on the dining-room sofa. But perhaps the most objectionable to Mrs Clinton of all her good man's eccentricities, was that he no longer gave her his week's money every Saturday afternoon as he had been accustomed to do; the coldness between them made her unwilling to say anything about it, but the approach of quarter day forced her to pocket her dignity and ask for the money. 'Oh, James!'--she no longer called him Jimmy--'will you give me the money for the rent?' 'Money?' he answered with the usual smile on his lips. 'I 'ave no money.' 'What d'you mean? You've not given me a farthing for ten weeks.' 'I 'ave given it to those who want it more than I.' 'You don't mean to tell me that you've given your salary away?' 'Yes, dear.'