'I really feel quite ashamed to take up the pen,' wrote the graceful lady, in her delicate hand. 'What _must_ you think of us! I assure you that never, never before did I find myself in such a situation. Indeed, I should not have the courage to write at all, but that the end of our troubles is already in view. It is _absolutely certain_ that, in a month's time, Mr. Rymer will be able to send you a cheque in complete discharge of his debt. Meanwhile, I _beg_ you to believe, dear Miss Shepperson, how very, _very_ grateful I am to you for your most kind forbearance.' Another page of almost affectionate protests closed with the touching subscription, 'ever yours, sincerely and gratefully, Adelaide Rymer.' But Miss Shepperson had fallen into that state of nervous agitation which impels to a decisive step. She foresaw the horrors of pecuniary embarrassment. Her faith in the Rymers' promises was exhausted. This very morning she would go to see Mrs. Rymer, lay before her the plain facts of the case, and with all firmness--with unmistakable resolve--make known to her that, if the arrears were not paid within a month, notice to quit would be given, and the recovery of the debt be sought by legal process. Fear had made Miss Shepperson indignant; it was wrong and cowardly for people such as the Rymers to behave in this way to a poor woman who had only just enough to live upon. She felt sure that they _could_ pay if they liked; but because she had shown herself soft and patient, they took advantage of her. She would be firm, very firm. So, about ten o'clock, Miss Shepperson put on her best things, and set out for Hammersmith. It was a foggy, drizzly, enervating day. When Miss Shepperson found herself drawing near to the house, her courage sank, her heart throbbed painfully, and for a moment she all but stopped and turned, thinking that it would be much better to put her ultimatum into writing. Yet there was the house in view, and to turn back would be deplorable weakness. By word of mouth she could so much better depict the gravity of her situation. She forced herself onwards. Trembling in every nerve, she rang the bell, and in a scarce audible gasp she asked for Mrs. Rymer. A brief delay, and the servant admitted her. Mrs. Rymer was in the drawing-room, giving her elder child a piano-lesson, while the younger, sitting in a baby-chair at the table, turned over a picture-book. The room was comfortably and prettily furnished; the children were very becomingly dressed; their mother, a tall woman, of fair complexion and thin, refined face, with wandering eyes and a forehead rather deeply lined, stepped forward as if in delight at the unexpected visit, and took Miss Shepperson's ill-gloved hand in both her own, gazing with tender interest into her eyes.