Dorothy had a small sum, saved by her mother, so invested as to bring her about twenty pounds a year, and of the last payment she had two pounds in hand.  Her father had nothing, and quarter-day was two months off.  This was the common knowledge of their affairs at which they arrived as they sat at breakfast on the Monday morning, after the saddest Sunday either of them had ever spent.  They had just risen from the table, and the old woman was removing the cloth, when a knock came to the lane-door, and she went to open it, leaving the room-door ajar, whereby the minister caught a glimpse of a blue apron, and feeling himself turning sick, sat down again.  Lisbeth re-entered with a rather greasy-looking note, which was of course from the butcher, and Mr. Drake’s hand trembled as he opened it.  Mr. Jones wrote that he would not have troubled him, had he not asked for his bill; but, if it was quite convenient, he would be glad to have the amount by the end of the week, as he had a heavy payment to make the following Monday.  Mr. Drake handed the note to his daughter, rose hastily, and left the room.  Dorothy threw it down half-read, and followed him.  He was opening the door, his hat in his hand.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, father dear?” she said.  “Wait a moment and I’ll go with you.”

“My child, there is not a moment to lose!” he replied excitedly.

“I did not read all the letter,” she returned; “but I think he does not want the money till the end of the week.”

“And what better shall we be then?” he rejoined, almost angrily.  “The man looks to me, and where will he find himself on Monday?  Let us be as honest at least as we can.”

“But we may be able to borrow it—­or—­who knows what might happen?”

“There it is, my dear!  Who knows what?  We can be sure of nothing in this world.”

“And what in the next, father?”

The minister was silent.  If God was anywhere, he was here as much as there!  That was not the matter in hand, however.  He owed the money, and was bound to let the man know that he could not pay it by the end of the week.  Without another word to Dorothy, he walked from the house, and, like a man afraid of cowardice, went straight at the object of his dismay.  He was out of the lane and well into Pine street before he thought to put on his hat.

From afar he saw the butcher, standing in front of his shop—­a tall, thin man in blue.  His steel glittered by his side, and a red nightcap hung its tassel among the curls of his gray hair.  He was discussing, over a small joint of mutton, some point of economic interest with a country customer in a check-shawl.  To the minister’s annoyance the woman was one of his late congregation, and he would gladly have passed the shop, had he had the courage.  When he came near, the butcher turned from the woman, and said, taking his nightcap by the tassel in rudimentary obeisance.

“At your service, sir.”