“No, not even—well, you may tell it to your mother, for boys ought to have no secrets from their mothers; besides, your mother is a discreet woman, and lives a long way off from London. You must know, then, Billy, that I have two very dear friends—two ladies—who are in deep poverty, and I want to give them money—”
“Well, why don’t you give it ’em, Miss?” said Billy, seeing that Ruth hesitated. “You must have lots of it to give away,” he added, looking contemplatively round.
“Yes, thank God, who gave it to me, I have, as you say, lots of it, but I cannot give it to the dear ladies I speak of because—because—”
“They’re too proud to take it, p’raps,” suggested Billy.
“No; they are not proud—very far from it; but they are sensitive.”
“What’s that, Miss?”
Ruth was puzzled for a reply.
“It—it means,” she said, “that they have delicate feelings, which cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when there are so many millions of poor people without money who cannot work for it. They once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really poor.”
“Why don’t they work, then?” asked Billy in some surprise. “Why don’t they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o’ that sort?”
“Because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any particular work,” returned Ruth; “moreover, they are in rather delicate health, and are not young. Their father was rich, and meant to leave them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health without a penny. Wasn’t it sad?”