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THE BREAD OF LOVE He was three score and ten. He had spent all his life earning a mere pittance and now in his old age he was turned out of his job. What next? His wife had died twenty years ago. His only son, the apple of his eye, had been snatched away in an accident. He had to resort to begging; but begging is an art; how could he acquire it? He would stand at the street corner with his wrinkled hand held out for alms. The few coins would provide a meal. Today, too, he was standing as usual, when a gentleman passed by. Moved by his hoary head bent over his chest, he put his hand in his pocket, but realised that he had forgotten his purse. He caught hold of the old man's hand in both of his and said feelingly, “My friend, I wish to give you something, but I am sorry I can give you nothing; I've forgotten my purse.”
The old man's eyes were moist. “You say you can give me nothing," he said in a tremulous voice. “But you've given me more than anyone else ever did. Man does not hunger for bread alone; he hungers for fellow-feeling and compassion, too. So far they gave me money, but today you've given me the bread of love."
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