“Allow me to open it for you,” he said, graciously taking the key from her.  “I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma’am.  I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant.”

He fitted the key in the door, while Stephen and his mother smiled at each other at the thought of the rent.  The gentleman opened the door, and stood aside to let them enter, very much as if he were showing them a palace for which he was the humble agent.

They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahogany and horsehair.  And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with a little porch overlooking the back yard.  Mrs. Brice thought of the dark and stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her married days:  of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colony had eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since.  Thank God, she had not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the high sideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it.  The widow’s eyes filled with tears.  She had not hoped again to have a home for these things, nor the father’s armchair, nor the few family treasures that were to come over the mountains.

The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way through the rooms.  There were not many of them.  At the door of the kitchen he stopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen’s shoulder:—­ “Here we may not enter.  This is your department, ma’am,” said he.

Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insisted upon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurrying up the street.  As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon the large house next door.  But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caught sight of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief.  She flung open the gate, and stood before him.

“Oh, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried, “mother is dying.  You have done so much for us, sir,—­couldn’t you come to her for a little while?  She thought if she might see you once more, she would die happy.”  The voice was choked by a sob.

Mr. Brinsmade took the girl’s hand in his own, and turned to the lady with as little haste, with as much politeness, as he had shown before.

“You will excuse me, ma’am,” he said, with his hat in his hand.

The widow had no words to answer him.  But she and her son watched him as he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl’s, until they were out of sight.  And then they walked home silently.

Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of the Brinsmade charity?

CHAPTER XI

THE INVITATION