"Oh, Mr. Trulock! Could you not get even one bottle? Now it is because you have helped us that you cannot afford it, and that makes me so unhappy."
"No, Ruth; not for that reason, my dear. I—I have a claim upon my income,—I am not free to spend it as I choose."
"Why, that's what father used to say!" cried Ruth wonderingly. "But, Mr. Trulock, let me go to the doctor, or to Mr. Cloudesley; either of them would help you."
"I cannot, Ruthie. I could not take charity, I am a proud man—I fear too proud. Even now I would rather die than accept charity."
Ruth considered for a moment in her grave, childlike wisdom; and then with her usual directness, she said,—
"I think we ought to take help, though, when we really want it. You know the rich are told to help the poor, and so I suppose the poor ought to take the help when they are willing to give it."
"There are plenty to take it," said Ralph.
"I took your help," she answered simply; "but I know you didn't mean it in that way. You mean that idle, extravagant poor people will get money, and not work for themselves; but then it seems a pity that the good poor people should not get some of it; don't you think so? Particularly when they want it as badly as you do."
"I cannot do it, dear. I cannot explain why, but ought not to want help; and I will not take it."
Ruth said no more, but tied on her hat and trotted off with her basket on her arm. Once out of the house, she paused thoughtfully.