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This is grand weather, mem, for
poor people,” said Mr. Tigh, the
rich neighbor of Mrs. Partington,
on a very warm day of winter,
and indulged in a half-chuckle
about it as he rubbed his hands
together. It is a remark that
almost everybody would make, and mean it, too, — at a
time when coal, by the rapacity of man, was eight or
nine dollars a ton, and cold weather, by the blessing of
Heaven, that tempers the wind to the shorn lambs and
ragged children, was withheld, — but not Mrs. Partington.

“Yes,” said she, gently laying her hand at the same
time on the sleeve of Mr. Tigh's coat, and looking him in
the face. “Yes, and don't folks use this good weather too
much as an excuse for not helping the indignant widows
and orphanless children? Depend upon it, cold weather
is the best for the poor, for then the rich feel the cold,

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and think more of 'em, and feel more exposed to give 'em
consolation and coal. Cold weather comes down from
heaven o' purpose to make men feel their duty, and it
touches the heart, as the frost touches the milk-pitcher
and breaks it, and the milk of humane kindness runs out,
and the poor are made better for it. Cold weather is a
blessing to the poor, depend upon it.”

She stopped here, and Mr. Tigh cast his eyes down and
struck his cane several times against a brick at his feet;
then, bidding the old lady good-morning, he moved away.
There was a large “Dr. to Sundries” on his book that
night, which the book-keeper will find it difficult to explain;
but Heaven knows all about it, and the secret gift,
in charity, and the prayer of the poor recipient, invoking
blessings on the unknown benefactor, were great records
that night in the angel's book.