Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few moments.  Then bowing, he said—­

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” was coldly and formally responded.

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.

“Better be at his shop, attending to his work,” muttered Green to himself, as his visitor retired.  “Men ain’t very apt to get along too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every object of charity that happens to turn up.  And there are plenty of such, dear knows.  He’s got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good.”

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon.  He had raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for one so sensitive as himself.  Instead of keeping on in his work of benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day’s employment.  How disappointed he felt;—­and this disappointment was mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been asking alms for himself.

“Catch me at this work again!” he said, half aloud, as his thoughts dwelt upon what had so recently occurred.  “But this is not right,” he added, quickly.  “It is a weakness in me to feel so.  Poor Mrs. Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets relief.  I had no thought of a reception like this.  People can talk of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair altogether.  I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could be insensible to an appeal like the one I made.”

“I’ve got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold’s rent,” he said to himself, in a more cheerful tone, sometime afterwards; “and it will go hard if I don’t raise the whole amount for her.  All are not like Green and Malcolm.  Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly respond to the call of humanity.  I’ll go and see him.”

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.

“I’ve come begging, Mr. Jones,” said he, on meeting him.  And he spoke in a frank, pleasant manner.

“Then you’ve come to the wrong shop; that’s all I have to say,” was the blunt answer.

“Don’t say that, Mr. Jones.  Hear my story, first.”

“I do say it, and I’m in earnest,” returned Jones.  “I feel as poor as Job’s turkey, to-day.”

“I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent,” said Lyon.

“Oh, hang all the poor widows!  If that’s your game, you’ll get nothing here.  I’ve got my hands full to pay my own rent.  A nice time I’d have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent!  No, no, my friend, you can’t get anything here.”

“Just as you feel about it,” said Andrew Lyon.  “There’s no compulsion in the matter.”

“No, I presume not,” was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before.  He had undertaken a thankless office.