fire burning on his face.

"I am not afraid of you, Mr. Walraven (that's your name, isn't it?--and
a very fine-sounding name it is), but you're afraid of me--afraid to the
core of your bitter, black heart. You stand there dressed like a king,
and I stand here in rags your kitchen scullions would scorn; but for all
that, Carl Walraven--for all that, you're my slave, and you know it!"

Her eyes blazed, her hands clinched, her gaunt form seemed to tower and
grow tall with the sense of her triumph and her power.

"Have you anything else to say?" inquired Mr. Walraven, sullenly,
"before I call my servants and have you turned out?"

"You dare not," retorted the woman, fiercely--"you dare not, coward!
boaster! and you know it! I have a great deal more to say, and I will
say it, and you will hear me before we part to-night. I know my power,
Mr. Carl Walraven, and I mean to use it. Do you think I need wear these
rags? Do you think I need tramp the black, bad streets, night after
night, a homeless, houseless wretch? No; not if I chose, not if I
ordered--do you hear?--_ordered_ my aristocratic friend, Mr. Walraven,
of Fifth Avenue, to empty his plethoric purse in my dirty pocket. Ah,
yes," with a shrill laugh, "Miriam knows her power!"

"Are you almost done?" Mr. Walraven replied, calmly. "Have you come here
for anything but talk? If so, for what?"

"Not your money--be sure of that. I would starve--I would die the death
of a dog in a kennel--before I would eat a mouthful of bread bought with
your gold. I come for justice!"