e come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how
we are to get them to take it."

"How kind of you, Ruth!" exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on
the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.

"Nonsense! it's not kind a bit," responded Ruth; "if you knew the
pleasure I've had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor
people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them,
though it _is_ so little after all."

"It won't appear little in their eyes, Ruth," said Kate, "for you can't
think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I
think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable."

Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress of others they
had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They
had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been
inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so
triumphantly showered upon the table.

"I've got a paper here with the name of each," continued the excited
girl, "so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think
best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my
brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept
charity."

"That will be no difficulty," said Jessie, "because we won't offer her
charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy
these."

"Oh! how stupid I am," cried Ruth, "the idea of buying something from
her never once occurred to me. We'll buy all her socks--yes, and put
our own price on them too; capital!"

"Who is Bella Tilly?" asked Mrs Dotropy.

"A young governess," replied Jessie, "whose health has given way. She
is an orphan--has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world--and has
been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her
health, but because she was badly treated."

"But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?" resumed Ruth, "has _he_
anything to sell?"

"I think not," answered Kate; "the sweet sounds in which he deals can
now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm
powerless. His flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not
part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the
doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we
shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. He has relatives, but
they are all either poor or heartless, and