'There, woman, turn right around and march out, and don't come here again with your begging petition, or I'll have you taken up as a vagrant.'
'If you please, sir,' answered the poor creature, humbly—'I haven't come to beg, but to ask if you won't be so kind as to pay this bill of my husband's. It's only five dollars, sir, and he is lying sick in bed, and we are in great distress from want of food and fire-wood. Since you discharged him he has not been able to get work, and—'
'Oh, get out!' interrupted the wealthy proprietor, brutally—'don't come bothering me with your distress and such humbug. I paid your husband more than he ought to have had—giving two dollars a day to a fellow, when I now get the same work for thirty cents! If you're in distress, go to the Poor House, but don't come here again—d'ye hear?'
The poor woman merely bowed her head in token of assent, and left the store, her pale cheeks moistened with tears. The friend of the wealthy proprietor said nothing, but thought to himself, 'You're a d——d scoundrel.' And, reader, we think so too, though not in the habit of swearing.
She had not proceeded two dozen steps from the store, when a rough-looking man in coarse overalls touched her arm, and thus addressed her:
'Beg your pardon, ma'am, but I'm a porter in the store of that blasted rascal as wouldn't pay your poor husband's bill for his work, and treated you so insultingly; I overheard what passed betwixt you and him, and I felt mad enough to go at him and knock blazes out of him. No matter—every dog has his day, as the saying is; and he may yet be brought to know what poverty is. I'm poor, but you are welcome to all the money I've got in the world—take this, and God bless you.'
The noble fellow passed three or four dollars in silver into her hand, and walked away ere she could thank him.
The recording angel above opened the great Book wherein all human actions are written, and affixed another black mark to the name of the wealthy proprietor. There were many black marks attached to that name already.
The angel then sought out another name, and upon it impressed the stamp of a celestial seal. It was the name of the poor laborer.
Oh, laborer! Thou art uncouth to look upon: thy face is unshaven, thy shirt dirty, and lo! thy overalls smell of paint and grease; thy speech is ungrammatical, and thy manners unpolished—but give us the grasp of thy honest hand, and the warm feelings of thy generous heart, fifty, yes a million times sooner than the mean heart and niggard hand of the selfish cur that calls itself thy master!