"I am a friend of Captain Ernscliffe," said Queenie, timidly. "Will you let me stay here to-night? I am homeless and penniless!" The housekeeper favored her with a stare of scornful incredulity. "Captain Ernscliffe's friends are all rich people," she said, with a toss of the head. "He don't have any acquaintance with _tramps_!" "I assure you that I am not a tramp," answered the young girl, quickly. "I have been very unfortunate in arriving in this city and finding my friends all dead or away. If your master were here he would certainly give me shelter this wintery night." "It's more than I'll do, then," said the housekeeper sharply; "come, young woman, don't tell no more lies! Captain Ernscliffe don't know you, but I _do_! You're a burglar's accomplice, and you want to get into the house that you may open it to your friends in the night and rob the house." "Indeed you are mistaken," said Queenie earnestly. "Oh! _do_ let me stay! If you don't I shall perish of cold in the streets to-night and my death will be on your hands. You may lock me into a room if you are afraid of me--only give me shelter." It had been on her mind to declare herself the wife of Captain Ernscliffe, and force the woman to admit her into the house that was virtually her own. But a moment's reflection showed the utter futility of such a course. No one except those who loved her would give credence to such a wild, improbable tale; no one would believe that the grave had given back its dead unless she could offer more substantial proof than she had at command. This woman before her would have laughed such an assertion to scorn. "Come, move on," she said roughly, at the same time seizing the girl by the shoulder and pushing her from her position against the door. "I can't shelter the likes of you, and I won't stand here in the cold wasting breath on you a minute longer." Queenie turned as the woman pushed her toward the steps and looked her in the eyes. "You may be sorry for this some day," she said. "Ha, ha," laughed the heartless housekeeper, "sorry indeed! Sorry that I didn't take a tramp into the house to rob my master." "Will you let me stay?" said Queenie, once more looking over her shoulder as she was wearily descending the marble steps. If the woman's heart had not been made of stone it must have melted at the anguish in that sweet, white face, but she only reiterated her refusal more angrily. "I am friendless and penniless," pleaded Queenie, still hoping to melt that icy heart. "Think what may happen to me in the streets at night!" "Go! go!" exclaimed the hard-hearted creature, fiercely. "I will go," said Queenie, drawing her cloak about her, and preparing to breast the wintery storm. "I will go, but remember, madam, that you may one day repent this! It is quite, quite possible that I may one day turn you from these doors as you have turned me to-night." For all answer the woman slammed the door in her face, and fiercely locked it.