at Westminster. I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping to escape
it, and fell into the river.

And then I awoke.

But it stays with me: the weary sadness of the Angel's face. I
cannot shake remembrance from me. Would I have done better, had I
taken the money I had spent upon these fooleries, gone down with it
among the poor myself, asking nothing in return. Is this fraction of
our superfluity, flung without further thought or care into the
collection box, likely to satisfy the Impracticable Idealist, who
actually suggested--one shrugs one's shoulders when one thinks of it-
-that one should sell all one had and give to the poor?

[The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.]

Or is our charity but a salve to conscience--an insurance, at
decidedly moderate premium, in case, after all, there should happen
to be another world? Is Charity lending to the Lord something we can
so easily do without?

I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of rubbish. She
called it "Giving to the Fresh Air Fund." Into the heap of lumber
one of her daughters flung a pair of crutches that for years had been
knocking about the house. The lady picked them out again.

"We won't give those away," she said, "they might come in useful
again. One never knows."

Another lady, I remember coming downstairs one evening dressed for a