reason of his unscrupulous operations in augmenting his enormous fortune, was one of the most cordially hated men in the country. Of late years, however, he had abandoned aggressive undertakings, and rested content with the wealth he had already acquired. Invalidism had been the cause of this change. The result of it had been to develop certain miserly instincts in the man until they became the dominant force of his life. By reason of this stinginess, his daughter was 23 made to suffer so much that she abominated her father. It was a long time now since he had ceased to be a familiar figure in the world. For some years, he had been confined to his bedchamber at Asherton Hall, his magnificent estate on the Hudson. There, from a window, he could survey a great part of his gardens, and watch his gardeners at their labors. With a pair of field-glasses, he could search every wooded knoll of the park for a half-mile to the river, in the hope of catching some fellow idling, whom he could dismiss. In his senseless economies, he had discharged servant after servant, until now his stately house was woefully ill-kept, and even his favorite gardens were undermanned.

On this morning of his daughter’s meeting with the sheriff’s officer, he was sitting up in his carved ebony bedstead. A black skull-cap was drawn over his little head, and the long, white hair fell to his shoulders, where it curled up at the ends. His sunken eyes gleamed like a hawk’s, and his dry, parchment skin was stretched tightly over the prominent bones. His nose was hooked, and his lips sunken over toothless gums—for he would not afford false teeth. His hands were as small as a woman’s, but claw-like.

On a round table by his bed stood the field-glasses with which he watched his gardeners, and woe betide man who permitted a single leaf to lie on the perfect 24 lawns, which stretched away on the plateau before the house.

The chamber in which the bed was set was lofty and bare. A few costly rugs were scattered on the highly-polished floor, and the general effect was funereal, for the ebony bedstead had a French canopy of black satin embroidered with gold. By the window stood his writing-desk, at which his steward and his secretary sat when they had business with him; and on the table by the window in the bay, was a bowl of flowers, the only bright spot of color in the room.

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 25 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 26 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.”

She commenced to give him details, but he hushed her down. “How much?—How much?” he asked, insultingly. “I told you before that you 27 have no justification for regarding your son as my heir. Who told you that I was going to leave him a penny? He’s a pauper, and dependent upon his father, not upon me. I owe him nothing.”

“Oh, father, father, it is expected of you.”

“How much?” snapped the old man.

“Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars.”

“What!” he screamed. “Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my check-book—get me my check-book.”

He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey, thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the desk, and placed it on her father’s knees, and brought an inkstand and a pen, which she put into his trembling fingers.

“Two thousand, father,” she said, gently.

“No—two!” he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her, tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word “Two” on the long line.

“Two. Do you understand?” he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face, as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. “That’s all you’ll get out of me.” He filled in the figure two below, and straggling 28 noughts for the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his remarks with the end of the penholder.

“I’ll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little legacy I leave you at my death.”

She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he would be more rational.

She replaced the blotting-pad, and dried the check in mechanical fashion; but her face was white with anger. She