I don't feel--perhaps I'm wrong," continued Tom thoughtfully--"perhaps I'm wrong--I hope not--but it's a fact, I don't feel much for the young and the sturdy poor, and I make it a rule _never_ to give a farthing to _young_ beggars, not even to little children, for I know full well that they are sent out to beg by idle, good-for-nothing parents.

I stand up only for the _aged_ poor, because, be they good or wicked, they _cannot_ help themselves.

If a man fell down in the street, struck with some dire disease that shrunk his muscles, unstrung his nerves, made his heart tremble, and his skin shrivel up, would you look upon him and then pass him by _without thinking ?_" "No," cried Fred in an emphatic tone, "I would not! I would stop and help him." "Then, let me ask you," resumed Tom earnestly, "is there any difference between the weakness of muscle and the faintness of heart which is produced by disease, and that which is produced by old age, except that the latter is incurable?
Have not these women feelings like other women?
Think you that there are not amongst them those who have 'known better times'?
They think of sons and daughters dead and gone, perhaps, just as other old women in better circumstances do.

But they must not indulge such depressing thoughts; they must reserve all the energy, the stamina they have, to drag round the city--barefoot, it may be, and in the cold--to beg for food, and scratch up what they can find among the cinder heaps.

They groan over past comforts and past times, perhaps, and think of the days when their limbs were strong and their cheeks were smooth; for they were not always 'hags.' And remember that _once_ they had friends who loved them and cared for them, although they are old, unknown, and desolate now." Tom paused and pressed his hand upon his flushed forehead.
"You may think it strange," he continued, "that I speak to you in this way about poor old women, but I _feel_ deeply for their forlorn condition.