“DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.”

The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture.

All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich, and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and stylish equipages.

A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a supper.

Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it.

The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was.

The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home and the handsome lady in the garnet dress.

“I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who had already caused his parents some solicitude.

“When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.”

“But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said the youth.

“I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.”

“I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.”

Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time the lad left his home and disappeared from the town.

His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving, however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not unclose easily as we grow older.

Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back, if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless, and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house, slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon him, and exposure undermined his health.

Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.

He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food.

“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch.

Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned.

“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.”

When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”

Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow.