“Let me help you, Hatty,” he cried, jumping to her assistance.
“Thank you, Fred,” and she kissed him.
“I like to do things for people who thank me,” he replied, eagerly.
“Why, my dear?”
“Because, ma, I know then—I know they’re pleased. I can’t explain the reason, only it makes me feel better.”
“You feel that they appreciate your kindness. Isn’t that the reason?”
“Yes, ma; and then I want to do something more.”
“I remember,” said the lady, “when I was a young girl, about Hatty’s age, I went with my aunt to make a visit to a distant relative. There were quite a number of children in the family. When we sat down to the table, soon after our arrival, the boys and girls began scrambling for food,—snatching everything that was within reach. I looked on in astonishment. My aunt passed me some bread. ‘I thank you,’ I said; and I repeated the words ‘thank you’ every time anything was passed to me.
“At last these rude children began to laugh.
“‘Who are you thanking so much?’ asked one. ‘We never say “thank you.” We get all we can without any such fuss.’