“That’s it—­that’s just it; people don’t think, otherwise this dreadful state of things would not continue.  Just listen now, for a moment, to what I have to say.  But don’t imagine that I’m standing up for the poor in general.  I don’t feel—­perhaps I’m wrong,” continued Tom thoughtfully—­“perhaps I’m wrong—­I hope not—­but it’s a fact, I don’t feel much for the young and the sturdy poor, and I make it a rule never to give a farthing to young beggars, not even to little children, for I know full well that they are sent out to beg by idle, good-for-nothing parents.  I stand up only for the aged poor, because, be they good or wicked, they cannot help themselves.  If a man fell down in the street, struck with some dire disease that shrunk his muscles, unstrung his nerves, made his heart tremble, and his skin shrivel up, would you look upon him and then pass him by without thinking?”

“No,” cried Fred in an emphatic tone, “I would not!  I would stop and help him.”

“Then, let me ask you,” resumed Tom earnestly, “is there any difference between the weakness of muscle and the faintness of heart which is produced by disease, and that which is produced by old age, except that the latter is incurable?  Have not these women feelings like other women?  Think you that there are not amongst them those who have ’known better times’?  They think of sons and daughters dead and gone, perhaps, just as other old women in better circumstances do.  But they must not indulge such depressing thoughts; they must reserve all the energy, the stamina they have, to drag round the city—­barefoot, it may be, and in the cold—­to beg for food, and scratch up what they can find among the cinder heaps.  They groan over past comforts and past times, perhaps, and think of the days when their limbs were strong and their cheeks were smooth; for they were not always ‘hags.’  And remember that once they had friends who loved them and cared for them, although they are old, unknown, and desolate now.”

Tom paused and pressed his hand upon his flushed forehead.

“You may think it strange,” he continued, “that I speak to you in this way about poor old women, but I feel deeply for their forlorn condition.  The young can help themselves, more or less, and they have strength to stand their sorrows, with hope, blessed hope, to keep them up; but poor old men and old women cannot help themselves, and cannot stand their sorrows, and, as far as this life is concerned, they have no hope, except to die soon and easy, and, if possible, in summer time, when the wind is not so very cold and bitter.”

“But how can this be put right, Tom?” asked Fred in a tone of deep commiseration.  “Our being sorry for it and anxious about it (and you’ve made me sorry, I assure you) can do very little good, you know.”

“I don’t know, Fred,” replied Tom, sinking into his usual quiet tone.  “If every city and town in Great Britain would start a society, whose first resolution should be that they would not leave one poor old man or woman unprovided for, that would do it.  Or if the Government would take it in hand honestly, that would do it.”