you love so much, dear aunt--and they asked so hard for bread, that I
sent them a shilling."

"Too much," interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from
feeling; "too much, dear Mabel, to give to common beggars."

"There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry. About three
hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook Lane--the grass
there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his feet, while I can
hear every grasshopper that chirps--suddenly, I heard a child's voice
singing a tune full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on; and there,
under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making believe to
sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet, and her
very rags fluttered in time to the tune. They looked pale and hungry,
though a thick crust of bread upon the grass proved that they were
not the latter; but I never saw more joy in well-fed, well-clothed
children, for they paused and laughed, and then began again. Poverty
was no pain to _them_, at all events."

"My dear," said Sarah Bond, "you forget the crust of bread was their
riches, for it was a superfluity."

"And is it not very shocking that in England a crust of bread _should
be_ a superfluity," inquired Mabel.

"Very, dear; _but a shilling was a great deal to give at the gate_,"
observed her aunt, adding, after a pause, "and yet it shows how little
will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad,
instead of staying at home to watch his--his--money, he would have
thought it right to share what he had. It is an unnatural thing to