His daughter came unannounced, as she always did. He was warned of her approach by the frou-frou of her silk, an evidence of refined femininity that for a long time past had been absent from Asherton Hall. The old man grunted at the sound, and stared straight ahead out of the window. He did not turn until she stood by his bedside, and placed her gloved hand upon his cold, bony fingers. "Father, I have come to see you." She kissed him on the brow, and his eyes darted an upward look, keen and penetrating as an eagle's. "Then you want something. The usual?" "Yes, father--money." This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but each time with a bitterer spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser's hand tightened upon his gold. She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young scamp. "How much is it now?" asked the miser. "A large sum, father," faltered Mrs. Swinton. "A thousand dollars! You know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the Mission Hall." "What!" screamed the old man, in horror. "A thousand dollars! It's a lie." "You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had given--" "Like his insolence." "And you promised a thousand dollars." "A thousand? Nothing of the sort," snarled the miser, scratching the coverlet with hooked fingers--always a sign of irritation with him. "I said one, not one thousand." She knew all his tricks. To avoid payment, he would always promise generously; but, when it came to drawing a check, he whiningly protested that five hundred was five, three hundred three, and so on. "This time, father, it is very urgent. John is in a tight fix. Misfortune has been assailing him right and left, and he is nearly bankrupt." "Ha, ha! Serve him right," chuckled the old man. The words positively rattled in his throat. "I always told you he was a fool. I told you, but you wouldn't listen to me. You insisted upon marrying a sky pilot. Apply up there for help." He pointed to the ceiling. "Father, father, be reasonable. There is a man at our house--a sheriff's officer. Think of it!" "Aha, has it come to that!" laughed the miser. "Now, he will wake up. Now, we shall see!" "Not only that, father. Dick may go away." "What, fleeing from justice?" "No, no, father. He is going to volunteer for service in the war."