face. At last she spoke, timidly. "Would you let me help you?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" inquired the old man, almost sharply.
"Why, I—I would like, so much, to have you ride, and I have money—"
But the old man interrupted her. "No," he said, coldly, and starting to rise, "I am not a beggar."
Marjorie caught his hand. "Oh, please don't be angry!" she cried. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I only wanted to be of some use. You could just think of it as a loan, you know, and pay it back by and by."
"I don't know when I could pay it back," said the old man, moodily. "Perhaps I never could, so it would be nothing but charity, after all. No, I cannot take it."
But Marjoie clung to his hand. "Listen just a minute," she said. "You could be paying it back all the time."
"How?" asked the old man.
"By doing things for people," said Marjorie. "There is always some one that we can help, you know; and if you would only let me do this for you, then you could pay me by doing something for some one else whenever you have
