ou drive about, do your shopping, make calls, and go
home again. You never visit the poorest streets. The people from them
never come to you. You are rich, your people before you were rich, you
live in a state of isolation."

"But that is not right," said the lady in a wailing voice. "I have been
thinking about this matter lately. I read a great deal in the papers
about the misery of the lower classes, and I think we richer ones ought
to do something to help them. Mrs. Morris, what can I do?"

The tears came in Mrs. Morris' eyes. She looked at the little, frail
lady, and said, simply: "Dear Mrs. Montague, I think the root of the
whole matter lies in this. The Lord made us all one family. We are all
brothers and sisters. The lowest woman is your sister and my sister. The
man lying in the gutter is our brother What should we do to help these
members of our common family, who are not as well off as we are? We
should share our last crust with them. You and I, but for God's grace in
placing us in different surroundings, might be in their places. I think
it is wicked neglect, criminal neglect in us to ignore this fact."

"It is, it is," said Mrs. Montague, in a despairing voice. "I can't help
feeling it. Tell me something I can do to help some one."

Mrs. Morris sank back in her chair, her face very sad, and yet with
something like pleasure in her eyes as she looked at her caller. "Your
washerwoman," she said, "has a drunken husband and a cripple boy. I have
often seen her standing over her tub, washing your delicate muslins and
laces, and dropping tears into the water."

"I will never send her anything more she shall not be troubled," said
Mrs. Montague, hastily.

Mrs. Morris could not help smiling. "I have not made myself clear. It is
not the washing that troubles her; it is her husband who beats her, and
her boy who worries her. If you and I take our work from her, she
will have that much less money to depend upon, and will suffer in
consequence, She is a hard-working and capable woman, and makes a fair
living. I would not advise you to give her money, for her husband would
find it out, and take it from her. It is sympathy that she wants. If you
could visit her occasionally, and show that you are interested in
her, by talking or reading to her poor foolish boy or showing him a
picture-book, you have no idea how grateful she would be to you, and how
it would cheer her on her dreary way."

"I will go to see her to-mor