Oh, brave old women! We are lost in wonder and veneration. Utilitarians and the apostles of thrift tell us that the poor are demoralized by "charity," and of a surety indiscriminate giving without knowledge and personal service is often ill bestowed. But in the presence of three old women possessed of heroic souls, living as they lived, working as they worked, who cares for utilitarianism or political economy either? A fig for the pair of them! "But," say our teachers, "you are in reality subsidizing their employers, who exploit them and pay them insufficiently." Another self-appointed teacher says: "Ah! but you are only helping them to pay exorbitant rents; the landlord will profit." Who cares? Others, in very comfortable circumstances, who themselves are by no means averse to receiving gifts, say: "Don't destroy the independence of the poor." Wisdom, prudence, political economy, go, hang yourselves! we cry. Our love is appealed to, our hearts are touched, our veneration is kindled, and we must needs do something, though the landlord may profit, though the employer may be subsidized--nay, though we run the terrible risk of tarnishing the glorious privilege and record of these independent old women--a record nearly completed. Help them we must, and we bid defiance to consequences. So we find the "trolly-man," and three separate bags of good coal are borne into three separate rooms. A whole hundredweight for each woman! Where could they put it all? What an orgie of fire they would have! Would the methodical thrift of the old women give way in the face of such a temptation? We don't care: we have become hardened; and we even promise ourselves that other bags of coal shall follow. Then we examine their tea-caddies, and throw this tea-dust on the fire--a fitting death for it, too--and further demoralize the ancient three with the gift of a pound of good tea, each in a nice cannister, too. A hundredweight of coal and a pound of tea! Why, the teapot will be always in use till the pound is gone. The poor drink too much tea. Perhaps so; but what are the poor to drink? They have neither time, inclination, nor money for the public-house. Coffee is dear if it is to be good. Cocoa is thick and sickly. Water! Their water!--ugh! At present poor old women have the choice of tea or nothing. Then leave them, we beseech you, their teapot, but let us see to it that they have some decent tea. So, with five shillings in silver for each of them, we leave the dauntless three to their fire, their teapots, and wonder, and go into the streets with the feeling that something is wrong somewhere, but what it is and how to right it we know not.