"To help us," he replied. Then, with an explosion of nervous energy,
he added: "Do what your heart tells you to do. Give your bed and your
clothes to the woman, and let your girls pitch their books to the devil
for a few days and make something for these poor little creatures to
wear. The poor have worked hard enough to clothe THEM. Let them take
their turn now and clothe the poor."

"No, no. Steady, master," said the man, stepping forward to propitiate
Miss Wilson, and evidently much oppressed by a sense of unwelcomeness.
"It ain't any fault of the lady's. Might I make so bold as to ask you
to put this woman of mine anywhere that may be convenient until morning.
Any sort of a place will do; she's accustomed to rough it. Just to have
a roof over her until I find a room in the village where we can shake
down." Here, led by his own words to contemplate the future, he looked
desolately round the cornice of the hall, as if it were a shelf on which
somebody might have left a suitable lodging for him.

Miss Wilson turned her back decisively and contemptuously on Smilash.
She had recovered herself. "I will keep your wife here," she said to the
man. "Every care shall be taken of her. The children can stay too."

"Three cheers for moral science!" cried Smilash, ecstatically breaking
into the outrageous dialect he had forgotten in his wrath. "Wot was my
words to you, neighbor, when I said we should bring your missus to the
college, and you said, ironical-like, 'Aye, and bloomin' glad they'll be
to see us there.' Did I not say to you that the lady had a noble 'art,
and would show it when put to the test by sech a calamity as this?"

"Why should you bring my hasty words up again' me now, master, when the