"Surely," said the minister. "Would you suffer such a slight as your
friends propose, to be offered to any one you loved?"

She did not answer, and he continued, thoughtfully: "I suppose that if
a poor person could do a rich person a kindness which cost him some
sacrifice, he might love him. In that case there could be love between
the rich and the poor."

"And there could be no love if a rich man did the same?"

"Oh yes," the minister said--"upon the same ground. Only, the rich man
would have to make a sacrifice first that he would really feel."

"Then you mean to say that people can't do any good at all with their
money?" Annie asked.

"Money is a palliative, but it can't cure. It can sometimes create a bond
of gratitude perhaps, but it can't create sympathy between rich and poor."

"But _why_ can't it?"

"Because sympathy--common feeling--the sense of fraternity--can spring only
from like experiences, like hopes, like fears. And money cannot buy these."

He rose, and looked a moment about him, as if trying to recall something.
Then, with a stiff obeisance, he said, "Good evening," and went out,
while she remained daunted and bewildered, with the child in her arms, as
unconscious of having kept it as he of having left it with her.