She looked like the beggar, she had become.
"Some beggar," the clerk said, in a contemptuous tone, as he advanced towards her.
"Is Mr.Swartz in ?" enquired Mrs.Wentworth in a husky tone.
"What do you want with him ?" he demanded in a gruff voice.
"I desire to see him privately, for a few moments," she answered.
"If it is charity you have come to beg, you may as well save yourself the trouble," observed the clerk.

"This house don't undertake to support all the beggars in Jackson." As his brutal words fell on her ear, a spark of womanly dignity filled her breast, and her eyes kindled with indignation.

She looked at him for a moment sternly and silently, until her gaze caused him to turn his countenance from her, abashed at the mute rebuke she had administered.

The pride of by-gone days had returned, with the unfeeling remarks of the clerk, and Mrs.Wentworth again felt all the bitterness of her position.
"I did not say I was an applicant for charity," she said at last "All I desire to know is, if Mr.Swartz is in." "I believe he is," replied the clerk.

"Do you wish to see him, ma'am." His tone was more respectful.