Smilash, bareheaded, without a coat, his corduroy vest and trousers heavy with rain; a rough-looking, middle-aged man, poorly dressed like a shepherd, wet as Smilash, with the expression, piteous, patient, and desperate, of one hard driven by ill-fortune, and at the end of his resources; two little children, a boy and a girl, almost naked, cowering under an old sack that had served them as an umbrella; and, lying on the settee where the two men had laid it, a heap of wretched wearing apparel, sacking, and rotten matting, with Smilash’s coat and sou’wester, the whole covering a bundle which presently proved to be an exhausted woman with a tiny infant at her breast.  Smilash’s expression, as he looked at her, was ferocious.

“Sorry fur to trouble you, lady,” said the man, after glancing anxiously at Smilash, as if he had expected him to act as spokesman; “but my roof and the side of my house has gone in the storm, and my missus has been having another little one, and I am sorry to ill-convenience you, Miss; but—­but—­”

“Inconvenience!” exclaimed Smilash.  “It is the lady’s privilege to relieve you—­her highest privilege!”

The little boy here began to cry from mere misery, and the woman roused herself to say, “For shame, Tom! before the lady,” and then collapsed, too weak to care for what might happen next in the world.  Smilash looked impatiently at Miss Wilson, who hesitated, and said to him: 

“What do you expect me to do?”

“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?”