On the evening succeeding this day, Peyton sat alone in his room, his
head leaning upon his hand, and his brow contracted. There was a tap
at his door. "Come in." A poorly clad, middle-aged woman entered. It
was his washerwoman.
The lines on the young man's brow became deeper.
"Can't you let me have some money, Mr. Peyton? My landlord is pressing
hard for his rent, and I cannot pay him until you pay me."
"Really, Mrs. Lee, it is quite impossible just now. I am entirely out
of money. But my salary will be due in three weeks, and then I will
pay you up the whole. You must make your landlord wait until that
time. I am very sorry to put you to this trouble. But it will never
happen again."
The young man really did feel sorry, and expressed it in his face as
well as in the tone of his voice.
"Can't you let me have one or two dollars, Mr. Peyton? I am entirely
out of money."
"It is impossible--I haven't a shilling left. But try to wait three
weeks, and then it will all come to you in a lump, and do you a great
deal more good than if you had it a dollar at a time."
Mrs. Lee retired slowly, and with a disappointed air. The young man
sighed heavily as she closed the door after her.
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