"Hush, Susan, you forget what you say. To be sure I may have hoped that some kind hand of earth would lift me from the cold depths of utter want; but I do not expect it as a reward for anything I may have done. If I have helped the unfortunate in days gone by, I have had my full reward in knowing that I have done my duty to my fellows. Oh! of all the kind deeds I have done to my suffering fellows, I would not for gold have one of them blotted from my memory. Ah! my fond wife, 'tis the memory of the good done in life that makes old age happy. Even now, I can hear again the warm thanks of those whom I have befriended, and again I can see their smiles." "Yes, Jacob," returned the wife, in a lower tone, "I know you have been good, and in your memory you can be happy; but, alas! there is a present upon which we must look--there is a reality upon which we must dwell. We must beg for food or starve!" The old man started, and a deep mark of pain was drawn across his features. "_Beg!_" he replied, with a quick shudder. "No, Susan, we are--" He hesitated, and a big tear rolled down his furrowed cheek. "We are what, Jacob?" "We are going to the poorhouse!" "O God! I thought so!" fell from the poor wife's lips, as she covered her face with her hands. "I have thought so, and I have tried to school myself to the thought; but my poor heart will not bear it!" "Do not give up," softly urged the old man, laying his hand upon her arm. "It makes but little difference to us now. We have not long to remain on earth, and let us not wear out our last days in useless repinings. Come, come." "But when--when--shall we go?" "Now--to-day." "Then God have mercy on us!" "He will," murmured Jacob. That old couple sat for a while in silence. When they were aroused from their painful thoughts it was by the stopping of a wagon in front of the door. A man entered the room where they sat. He was the keeper of the poorhouse. "Come, Mr. Manfred," he said, "the selectmen have managed to crowd you into the poorhouse. The wagon is at the door, and you can get ready as soon as possible." Jacob Manfred had not calculated the strength he should need for this ordeal. There was a coldness in the very tone and manner of the man who had come for him that went like an ice-bolt to his heart, and with a deep groan he sank back in his seat. "Come, be in a hurry," impatiently urged the keeper. At that moment a heavy covered carriage drove up to the door. "Is this the house of Jacob Manfred?" This question was asked by a man who entered from the carriage. He was a kind-looking man, about forty years of age. "That is my name," said Jacob. "Then they told me truly," uttered the new-comer. "Are you from the almshouse?" he continued, turning toward the keeper. "Yes." "Then you may return. Jacob Manfred goes to no poorhouse while I live." The keeper gazed inquisitively into the face of the stranger, and left the house.