“But I know it. I, at least, do ample justice to the subject. You can no more force me to leave this pleasant room than you can change the moon.” “I do not hope to force your absence, but come in all kindness to say how much your stay here is injuring us. I come to entreat, implore you not to force us away from the only shelter we have. Here the woman of the house is kind to us, and that makes it seem like home. My son died fighting for his country—perhaps you did not know that. When he was with us we were very comfortable, and _so_ happy. Now, the children have no one but me; and I am only a weak old woman; but my child’s good name must not be lost. We were getting a little comfortable, just now; but if you will stay, we must go.” “Go!” exclaimed Ward, in sudden excitement. “You really don’t mean that, old lady?” “It is hard. I am an old woman, and age shrinks from change. We had got used to the rooms; but if we must go, we must! Heaven help us!” Mrs. Burns arose as she spoke, and stood with one hand on the chair, looking sadly on the floor. At last she lifted her brown eyes mournfully to his, and turned away. Poor thing! She did not know how to struggle, but she was patient to endure. I think the young man was a little disturbed by the expression of those eyes, for the fire went out from his segar, and he flung it away half consumed, muttering something between his teeth that sounded like an exclamation of self-loathing. “I’ll go and see Gould,” he said, throwing his dressing-gown across a chair, and thrusting his arms into a coat. “No, I wont, either! Hang it all, I’m getting too fond of the girl myself; half tempted to marry her, and get religion. That sweet old woman, now, would be like a sermon in one’s house. If one only had a nice little fortune—income sure? How easy it is for rich men to be good. But we fellows that live by our wits, find ‘Jordan a hard road to travel.’ I wish that old lady had stayed away. I can stand the girl’s haughty airs, for anger fires up her beauty into something wonderful; but that sweet, low voice; those poor little hands, trembling like birds in the cold; and those eyes, take a fellow’s spirit out of his bosom. I think they reminded me of my own mother. Well, I’ll think about going away, poor, old woman; if it was only her, I’d quit at once—I would, indeed!” Mrs. Burns heard nothing of this; she had left the room, and was knocking faintly at her landlady’s door. “Come in.” Mrs. Burns obeyed the summons, and entered the room with which our readers are acquainted. The landlady sat on a low chair, with her foot on the round of another chair, and the seam of a coarse jacket pinned to her knee. She looked up, holding her thread half drawn, and pushing the chair on which her foot rested, asked her tenant to sit down, a little roughly—for she was not quite satisfied with the aspect of things with the family up stairs. Mrs. Burns sat down, and the landlady bent to her work again.