By the bye, the idea of begging “not for myself, but for another,” is a dodge not confined to the epistolary impostor. In the neighbourhood in which I reside, some little time since there made her appearance a very fine specimen of disinterested generosity of the kind in question: a little old lady dressed in black, with kid-gloves on her hands, and a cloak soberly trimmed with black crape. She knocked the knock of a person used to the genteel fingering of a knocker, and might she be permitted to speak with the lady of the house? It happened that, at that moment, the gentleman of the house was going out, and he, hearing the application, suggested that possibly he might do as well. Undoubtedly, though it was a trivial matter with which to occupy the attention of a gentleman. The simple fact was, that the little old lady was bound on a mission of charity for a poor soul recently left destitute with nine small children: her aim being the purchase of a mangle and a few washing-tubs, that the widow might earn an honourable livelihood for her numerous brood. “I am too poor to supply her with _all_ the money out of my own slender little purse,” said the old lady, “but I have plenty of leisure, and I think that you will agree with me, sir, it cannot be employed more worthily. I do not ask for any large sum on the poor creature’s behalf; I only ask one single penny. I will not take more than a penny. I put the pence in this little bag, you see, and by perseverance I trust that I shall soon accomplish my aim.” As the little old lady spoke, she cheerfully produced from the folds of her cloak a stout linen bag heavy with copper money, and containing, I should say, at least twelve shillings. The little old lady’s manner was plausible and smooth, and well calculated to impose on the “lady of the house” nine times out of ten. But unfortunately for her it had been my lot to make the acquaintance of many strange little old ladies as well as of gentlemen, and I had my suspicions. I closed the outer door and confronted her on the mat. “I beg your pardon, but have we not met before?” I asked her. She looked up suddenly and sharply, with no little alarm on her wizened old face. “I—I think not, sir,” she faltered. “Do you happen to know a gentleman named Horsford?” was my next inquiry. The little old lady looked still more embarrassed. “I did not come here to discuss my own affairs, sir,” said she with a sorry affectation of indignation, “nor to answer questions that bear no relation to my charitable object. I wish you a good-morning, sir!” And with that she opened the door, and let herself out; and descending the steps quickly, trotted up the street with guilty speed, and turned the corner, and was out of sight before I could make up my mind what to do with her.