There was one name down on the book for a small amount which
Livingstone could not recall.--Oh yes, he was an assistant preacher at
Livingstone's church: the donation was for a Christmas-tree in a
Children's Hospital, or something of the kind. This was one of Mrs.
Wright's charities too. Livingstone remembered the note the preacher had
written him afterwards--it had rather jarred on him, it was so grateful.
He hated "gush," he said to himself; he did not want to be bothered with
details of yarn-gloves, flannel petticoats, and toys. He took out his
pencil and wrote Mrs. Wright's name on the stub. That also should be
charged to Mrs. Wright. He carried in his mind the total amount of the
contributions, and as he came to the end a half-frown rested on his brow
as he thought of having to give to all these objects again.

That was the trouble with charities,--they were as regular as coupons.
Confound Mrs. Wright! Why did she not let him alone! However, she was
an important woman--the leader in the best set in the city. Livingstone
sat forward and began to fill out his cheques. Certain cheques he always
filled out himself. He could not bear to let even Clark know what he
gave to certain objects.

The thought of how commendable this was crossed his face and lit it up
like a glint of transient sunshine. It vanished suddenly as he began to
calculate, leaving the place where it had rested colder than before. He
really could not spend as much this year as last--why, there was--for
pictures, so much; charities, so much, etc. It would quite cut into the
amount he had already decided to lay by. He must draw in somewhere: he
was worth only--the line of figures slipped in before his eyes with its
lantern-slide coldness.

He reflected. He must cut down on his charities. He could not reduce the