He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food. “We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch. Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned. “It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.” When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?” Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow. HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID. TWO LITTLE children, Annie and James, were picking up stray pieces of coal near the railroad, to carry to a very poor home. Suddenly they espied a black lump that looked like coal, only it moved. With childish curiosity they crept towards it and found a thin, frightened, hungry dog that had been crippled and beaten by boys. “Do you dare touch her?” said the girl of nine years. “She might bite.” “Oh, yes,” said Jimmie, a rugged and alert little fellow of seven. “See, she wags her short tail, and I guess she wants to go home with us.” “But mother couldn’t take care of her, we’re so poor, and baby Ned and Willie have to eat and have clothes.” “Oh, I’ll give her some of my bread and milk every night, and Mrs. Martin next door will give her bones, I guess. She hasn’t any boy and she is good to me.” The girl put her fingers carefully along the black dog’s forehead, and the animal pushed her cold nose against the child’s hand and licked it. She was not used to kind voices, and a girl’s fingers upon her head gave her courage. She half rose to her feet, looked from one to the other and seemed to say, “I will go with you if you will only take me.” “I wouldn’t pick her up, Jimmie; she’ll follow us.” “She can’t walk much,” said the boy, “but I’ll help her over the bad places if you’ll carry the basket of coal.”