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‘I must be firm,’ said Miss Shepperson to herself, as she poured out her morning tea with tremulous hand. ‘I must really be very firm with them.’

Firmness was not the most legible characteristic of Miss Shepperson’s physiognomy. A plain woman of something more than thirty, she had gentle eyes, a twitching forehead, and lips ever ready for a sympathetic smile. Her attire, a little shabby, a little disorderly, well became the occupant of furnished lodgings, at twelve and sixpence a week, in the unpretentious suburb of Acton. She was the daughter of a Hammersmith draper, at whose death, a few years ago, she had become possessed of a small house and an income of forty pounds a year; her two elder sisters were comfortably married to London tradesmen, but she did not see very much of them, for their ways were not hers, and Miss Shepperson had always been one of those singular persons who shrink into solitude the moment they feel ill at ease. The house which was her property had, until of late, given her no trouble at all; it stood in a quiet part of Hammersmith, and had long been occupied by good tenants, who paid their rent (fifty pounds) with exemplary punctuality; repairs, of course, would now and then be called for, and to that end Miss Shepperson carefully put aside a few pounds every year. Unhappily, the old tenants were at length obliged to change their abode. The house stood empty for two months; it was then taken on a three years’ lease by a family named Rymer–really nice people, said Miss Shepperson to herself after her first interview with them. Mr. Rymer was ‘in the City’; Mrs. Rymer, who had two little girls, lived only for domestic peace–she had been in better circumstances, but did not repine, and forgot all worldly ambition in the happy discharge of her wifely and maternal duties. ‘A charming family!’ was Miss Shepperson’s mental comment when, at their invitation, she had called one Sunday afternoon soon after they were settled in the house; and, on the way home to her lodgings, she sighed once or twice, thinking of Mrs. Rymer’s blissful smile and the two pretty children.

The first quarter’s rent was duly paid, but the second quarter-day brought no cheque; and, after the lapse of a fortnight, Miss Shepperson wrote to make known her ingenuous fear that Mr. Rymer’s letter might have miscarried. At once there came the politest and friendliest reply. Mr. Rymer (wrote his wife) was out of town, and had been so overwhelmed with business that the matter of the rent must have altogether escaped his mind; he would be back in a day or two, and the cheque should be sent at the earliest possible moment; a thousand apologies for this unpardonable neglect. Still the cheque did not come; another quarter-day arrived, and again no rent was paid. It was now a month after Christmas, and Miss Shepperson, for the first time in her life, found her accounts in serious disorder. This morning she had a letter from Mrs. Rymer, the latest of a dozen or so, all in the same strain–

‘I really feel quite ashamed to take up the pen,’ wrote the graceful lady, in her delicate hand. ‘What must you think of us! I assure you that never, never before did I find myself in such a situation. Indeed, I should not have the courage to write at all, but that the end of our troubles is already in view. It is absolutely certain that, in a month’s time, Mr. Rymer will be able to send you a cheque in complete discharge of his debt. Meanwhile, I beg you to believe, dear Miss Shepperson, how very, very grateful I am to you for your most kind forbearance.’ Another page of almost affectionate protests closed with the touching subscription, ‘ever yours, sincerely and gratefully, Adelaide Rymer.’