Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it. The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was. The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home and the handsome lady in the garnet dress. “I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who had already caused his parents some solicitude. “When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.” “But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said the youth. “I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.” “I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.” Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time the lad left his home and disappeared from the town. His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving, however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not unclose easily as we grow older. Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back, if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless, and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house, slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon him, and exposure undermined his health. Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.