I left my guest abruptly, with a of not very easily

definable. His of questions about questions which has

so often answered, and always in the same way, was not so in him as it

would have been in a person of our civilization; he a wholly

different of things, the of our own, and much be

forgiven him for that reason, just as in Russia much be to

an American if he his from a

purely experience. I that in Altruria, for instance, the

possession of great gifts, of any of superiority, the sense

of to others, and the wish to identify one’s self with the

great of men, than the to one’s self from

them; and that the Altrurians their men in the measure they

did this. A man in such a must naturally it

difficult to our point of view; with social as the ideal, he

would with of our of social exclusion; but I

think we had all been very patient with him; we should have short

work with an American who had approached us with the same inquiries.

Even from a foreigner, the citizen of a on the notion,

elsewhere since Cain, that one is his brother’s keeper,

the he asked only they were puerile;

but they were puerile. I that it ought to have been

self-evident to him that when a of sixty Americans

based itself upon the great of self-seeking, self-seeking was

the best thing, and, it to work, it must carry

with it in measure. If a hundred thousand

favored Americans the of all the

rest, it was as right and just that they should do so as that four

thousand American should be than all the other

Americans put together. Such a status, out of our political

equality and our material prosperity, must a purpose to any

one with the designs of Providence, and it a of

impiety to its perfection. I the which I could

not help in the Altrurian to his traditions, and I was aware

that my friends had done so, too. But, if I judge from myself, he

must have left them all of their effort; and this was not

pleasant. I not the that although I had openly disagreed

with him on every point of and economics, I was still responsible

for him as a guest. It was as if an English had a

blatant American Democrat into Tory society; or, rather, as if a

Southerner of the time had a Northern Abolitionist and

permitted him to into the of among his neighbors.

People would him as my guest for a time, but there must be an end

of their patience with the of his and the explicit

vulgarity of his ideals, and when the end came I must be with

him.

I did not like the of this, and I meant to it if I could. I

confess that I would have him, as I had already

disavowed his opinions, but there was no way of doing it of telling

him to go away, and I was not to do that. Something in the man, I do

not know what, to me. He was not contemptibly

puerile without being childlike, and I only make up my mind

to be more and more with him and to try and him, as well as

myself, from the I dreaded.

I asleep an into the mountains, which

should take up the of the week that I him to with me,

and would keep him from up his of American life where

they would be so to of us as they must in our hotel. A

knock at my door me, and I sent a “Come in!” toward it from

the without looking that way.

“Good-morning!” came in the rich, voice of the Altrurian. I

lifted my with a from the pillow, and saw him against

the closed door, with my shoes in his hand. “Oh, I am sorry I you. I

thought--”

“Not at all, not at all,” I said. “It’s time, I say. But you

oughtn’t to have taken the trouble to my shoes in.”

“I wasn’t in it,” he returned. “I you to

compliment me on them. Don’t you think they are well done, for an

amateur?” He came toward my bed, and them about in his hands, so

that they would catch the light, and upon me.

“I don’t understand,” I began.

“Why,” he said, “I them, you know.”

“You them?”

“Yes,” he returned, easily. “I I would go into the baggage-room,

after we last night, to look for a piece of mine that had not been

taken to my room, and I the there, with his up.

He said he had it in a lady’s Saratoga--he said a

Saratoga was a large trunk--and I him to let me him at the

boots he was blacking. He at first, but I upon trying my

hand at a pair, and then he let me go on with the men’s boots; he said he

could the ladies’ without his wrist. It needed less skill

than I supposed, and after I had done a he said I black

boots as well as he.”

“Did see you?” I gasped, and I a cold out

on me.

“No, we had the whole midnight hour to ourselves. The porter’s work with

the was all over, and there was nothing to the

delightful we into. He is a very man, and he told me

all about that of which you deprecate. He says that the

servants it as much as the guests; they have to take the now

because the on them in the wages, and they cannot live

without them. He is a fine, fellow, and--”

“Mr. Homos,” I in, with the I in his that

no one had him helping the black boots, “I want to speak very

seriously with you, and I you will not be if I speak very

plainly about a in which I have your good at heart.” This

was not true, and I a little when he thanked me with

that of his which was so much like irony; but I went

on: “It is my to you, as my guest, to tell you that this thing of

doing for others is not such a here, as your peculiar

training leads you to think. You have been by a superficial

likeness; but, really, I do not how you have read all you

have done about us and not here that America and

Altruria are and in their actuating

principles. They are republics, I know; but America is a republic

where every man is for himself, and you cannot help others as you do at

home; it is dangerous--it is ridiculous. You must keep this in mind,

or you will into errors that will be very to you in your

stay among us, and,” I was to add, “to all your friends. Now, I

certainly hoped, after what I had said to you and what my friends had

explained of our civilization, that you would not have done a thing of

this kind. I will see the porter, as soon as I am up, and ask him not to

mention the to any one, but, I confess, I don’t like to take an

apologetic with him; your are so to ours that they

will to him, and he will think I am him.”

“I don’t he will think that,” said the Altrurian, “and I you

won’t the case so as it to you. I am sorry to

have done wrong--”

“Oh, the thing wasn’t in itself. It was only under the

circumstances. Abstractly, it is right to help a fellow-being who

needs help; no one that, in a country where every one is for

himself.”

“I am so to it,” said the Altrurian. “Then, at least, I have not

gone astray; and I do not think you need take the trouble to

explain the Altrurian ideas to the porter. I have done that already, and

they to him; he said that had to act

upon them, here, more or less, and that if they did not act upon them

there would be no for them at all. He says they have to help one

another very much as we do at home, and that it is only the rich folks

among you who are independent. I don’t think you need speak to him

at all, unless you wish; and I was very to my offer of help

at the point where I from you and your friends that it might do

harm. I asked him if there was not some one who would help him out with

his boot-blacking for money, in that case I should be to pay

him; but he said there was no one about who would take the job; that he

had to agree to black the boots, or else he would not have got the place

of porter, but that all the of the help would it a disgrace,

and would not help him for love or money. So it safe to offer

him my services.”

I that the was almost hopeless, but I asked: “And what he

said--didn’t that anything else to you?”

“How anything else?” asked the Altrurian, in his turn.

“Didn’t it to you that if none of his fellow-servants were willing

to help him black boots, and if he did it only he was to,

it was the of work for you?”

“Why, no,” said the Altrurian, with simplicity. He must have

perceived the I into at this answer, for he asked: “Why

should I have doing for others what I should have been to

do for myself?”

“There are a great many we are to do for ourselves that we

are not to do for others. But on that principle, which I

think false and illogical, you not be justified. A is not

willing to black _his own_ boots. It is to his feelings, to his

self-respect; it is something he will not do if he can else to

do it for him.”

“Then in America,” said the Altrurian, “it is not to the

feelings of a to let another do for him what he would not do for

himself?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah,” he returned, “then we something different by

the word in Altruria. I see, now, how I have a

mistake. I shall be more hereafter.”

I I had the subject, and, “By-the-way,” I said, “how

would you like to take a little with me to-day up into the

mountains?”

“I should be delighted,” said the Altrurian, so that I was

ashamed to think why I was the to him.

“Well, then, I shall be to start as soon as we have had breakfast. I

will join you down-stairs in an hour.”

He left me at this hint, though I was he might and

offer to me a hand at my toilet, in the of his national

character. I him with Mrs. Makely, when I down, and she began,

with a parenthetical to the of the in the morning

light: “Don’t be to see me up at this hour. I don’t

know it was the of our talk last night, or what it was,

but my wouldn’t act, though I took fifteen grains, and I was up

with the lark, or should have been, if there had been any of

literature to be up with. However, this air is so that I don’t

mind a night’s sleep now and then. I that with a little

practice one along without any sleep at all here; at least, _I_

could. I’m sorry to say Mr. Makely _can’t_, apparently. He’s making

up for his of my vigils, and I’m going to without him. Do

you know, I’ve done a very thing: I’ve got the head-waiter to give

you places at our table; I know you’ll it, Mr. Twelvemough, because

you naturally want to keep Mr. Homos to yourself, and I don’t you at

all; but I’m not going to _let_ you, and that’s all there is about

it.”

The I at this was not unmixed, but I to

keep Mrs. Makely from so, and I was when she

found a to say to me, in a low voice: “I know just how you’re

feeling, Mr. Twelvemough, and I’m going to help you keep him from doing

anything ridiculous, if I can. I _like_ him, and I think it’s a perfect

shame to have people laughing at him. I know we can manage him between

us.”

We so failed, however, that the Altrurian hands with the

head-waiter when he pressed open the wire-netting door to let us into the

dining-room, and a to our of the one makes to a

lady. But we it best to these little errors of his and

reserve our for anything more spectacular. Fortunately we

got through our with nothing than his jumping up and

stooping to hand the a spoon she let fall; but this easily

pass for some attention to Mrs. Makely at a little distance. There were

not many people to yet; but I see that there was a

good of among the waitresses, with folded

arms their tables, and that the head-waiter’s was red

with anxiety.

Mrs. Makely asked if we were going to church. She said she was driving

that way, and would be to us. “I’m not going myself,” she

explained, “because I couldn’t make anything of the sermon, with my head

in the it is, and I’m going to on a good action. I want

to some books and papers over to Mrs. Camp. Don’t you think that

will be as acceptable, Mr. Homos?”

“I should to it,” he said, with a not

altogether out of with her lightness.

“Who is Mrs. Camp?” I asked, not to myself on the question.

“Lizzie’s mother. You know I told you about them last night. I think she

must have got through the books I her, and I know Lizzie didn’t like

to ask me for more, she saw me talking with you, and didn’t want

to us. Such a girl! I think the Sunday papers must have

come, and I’ll take them over, too; Mrs. Camp is always so to get

them, and she is so when she going about public events.

But you don’t approve of Sunday papers, Mr. Homos.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, madam. I haven’t them yet. You know this is

the Sunday I’ve been in America.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say you won’t see the old Puritan Sabbath,” said Mrs.

Makely, with an from the question of the Sunday papers.

“Though you ought to, up in these hills. The only thing left of it is

rye-and-Indian bread, and these and fish-balls.”

“But they are very good?”

“Yes, I say they are not the of it.”

She was a woman who to levity, and I was a little she might

be going to say something irreverent; but, if she were, she was

forestalled by the Altrurian asking: “Would it be very indiscreet, madam,

if I were to ask you some time to me to that family?”

“The Camps?” she returned. “Not at all. I should be perfectly delighted.”

The to her, and she asked: “Why not go with me this

morning, unless you are on going to church, you and Mr.

Twelvemough?”

The Altrurian at me, and I said I should be only too glad, if I

could some books, so that I on a good action, too.

“Take one of your own,” she suggested.

“Do you think they wouldn’t be too upon it?” I asked.

“Well, Mrs. Camp might,” Mrs. Makely consented, with a smile. “She goes

in for fiction; but I think Lizzie would a good,

old-fashioned love-story, where got married, as they do in your

charming books.”

I a little, for every one to be seriously, and I did

not being to the young-girl public; but I put a face

on it, and said: “My good action shall be done in of Miss Lizzie.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Makely having left word with the where we

were gone, so that her husband need not be when he got up, we were

striking into the on a two-seated buckboard, with one of the best

teams of our hotel, and one of the most drivers. Mrs. Makely had

the Altrurian into the seat with her, and, after some to

make talk with the driver, I over and joined in their talk. The

Altrurian was interested, not so much in the landscape--though he

owned its when we out over it from point to point--but in the

human and features. He noticed the in the fields, and the

horses we met on the road, and the taste and of the buildings, the

variety of the crops, and the promise of the harvest. I was of the

respite his questions gave me from the study of the of

our civilization, for they were now at these more material facts,

and I joined Mrs. Makely in them. We that

the we met were from the different or boarding-houses,

or at least from the where the people took city people to board; and

that to the who by

cultivating the soil. There was not very much of the cultivated, for

the was hay, with here and there a of potatoes or beans,

and a in sweet-corn. The houses of the natives, when they were

for their use only, were no than their turnouts; it was where the

city had that they were modern and pleasant. Now and

then we came to a homestead, and I to make the Altrurian

understand how in New England had to the of

the operations of the West. “You know,” I said, “that

agriculture is an operation out there, as much as coal-mining is in

Pennsylvania, or finance in Wall Street; you have no idea of the vastness

of the scale.” Perhaps I a little with in my of

the national prosperity, as it from our Western of five and

ten and twenty thousand acres; I not very well help on the

pedal in these passages. Mrs. Makely almost, as eagerly, as the

Altrurian, for, as a American woman, she was necessarily

quite of her own country, geographically, politically, and

historically. “The only people left in the hill country of New England,” I

concluded, “are those who are too old or too lazy to away. Any young

man of energy would be to stay, unless he wanted to keep a

boarding-house or live on the city in summer. If he doesn’t,

he goes West and takes up some of the new land, and comes in

middle-life and a farm to his on.”

“Dear me!” said the Altrurian. “Is it so as that? Then we can

hardly wonder at their owners these worn-out farms; though I

suppose it must be with the of exile, sometimes.”

“Oh, I there isn’t much involved,” I answered, lightly.

“Whoa!” said Mrs. Makely, speaking to the she spoke to the

driver, as some will. He them up, and looked at her.

“Isn’t that Reuben Camp, _now_, over there by that house?” she asked, as

if we had been talking of him; that is another way some have.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the driver.

“Oh, well, then!” and “Reuben!” she called to the man, who was

prowling about the door-yard of a sad-colored old farm-house, and peering

into a window here and there. “Come here a moment--won’t you, please?”

He his and looked round, and, when he had the appeal

made to him, he came the walk to the gate and over it, waiting

for instructions. I saw that it was the man we had

noticed with the girl Mrs. Makely called Lizzie on the hotel the

night before.

“Do you know I should Lizzie at home this morning?”

“Yes, she’s there with mother,” said the fellow, with neither liking

nor in his tone.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said the lady. “I didn’t know but she might be at

church. What in the world has here? Is there anything unusual

going on inside?”

“No, I was just looking to see if it was all right. The wanted I

should come round.”

“Why, where are they?”

“Oh, they’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes; gone West. They’ve left the old place, they couldn’t make a

living here any longer.”

“Why, this is a case in point,” I said. “Now, Mr. Homos, here is a

chance to at hand about a very of

our civilization”; and I added, in a low voice, to Mrs. Makely: “Won’t you

introduce us?”

“Oh yes. Mr. Camp, this is Mr. Twelvemough, the author--you know his

books, of course; and Mr. Homos, a from Altruria.”

The opened the gate he on and came out to us. He took

no notice of me, but he the Altrurian’s hand and it. “I’ve

heard of _you_” he said. “Mrs. Makely, were you going to our place?”

“Why, yes.”

“So do, then. Mother would give almost anything to see Mr. Homos. We’ve

heard of Altruria, over our way,” he added to our friend. “Mother’s been

reading up all she can about it. She’ll want to talk with you, and she

won’t give the of us much of a chance, I guess.”

“Oh, I shall be to see her,” said the Altrurian, “and to tell her

everything I can. But won’t you to me something about your

deserted here? It’s a new thing to me.”

“It isn’t a new thing to us,” said the fellow, with a laugh.

“And there isn’t much to about it. You’ll see them all through New

England. When a man he can’t his out of the

land, he don’t like to be in it, and he up and

goes.”

“But people used to their here,” I suggested. “Why

can’t they now?”

“Well, they didn’t use to have Western prices to with; and then the

land wasn’t out so, and the taxes were not so heavy. How would you

like to pay twenty to thirty on the thousand, and up to

the last notch, in the city?”

“Why, what in the world makes your taxes so heavy?”

“Schools and roads. We’ve got to have schools, and you city want

good when you come here in the summer, don’t you? Then the season is

short, and sometimes we can’t make a crop. The the in

the field, and you have your trouble for your pains. Potatoes are the only

thing we can count on, grass, and, when potatoes,

you know where the price goes.”

“Oh, but now, Mr. Camp,” said Mrs. Makely, over toward him, and

speaking in a and tone, as if he must not keep the

truth from an old friend like her, “isn’t it a good the

farmers’ want pianos, and the farmers’ sons want buggies? I

heard Professor Lumen saying, the other day, that, if the farmers were

willing to work as they used to work, they still a good living

off their farms, and that they gave up their places they were too

lazy, in many cases, to farm them properly.”

“He’d not let _me_ him saying that,” said the fellow,

while a passed over his face. He added, bitterly: “If he wants

to see how easy it is to make a up here, he can take this place and

try for a year or two; he can it cheap. But I he wouldn’t want

it the year round; he’d only want it a months in the summer, when he

could the of it, and see me over there on my

farm, while he on his porch.” He and looked at

the old house in a moment. Then, as he on, his voice its

angry ring. “The here this place from the Indians, and they’d

been here more than two hundred years. Do you think they left it because

they were too lazy to it, or couldn’t and out of

it, or were such as not to know they were well off? It was

their _home_; they were and and died here. There is the family

burying-ground over there.”

Neither Mrs. Makely myself was with a reply, and we left the

word with the Altrurian, who suggested: “Still, I they will be

more in the West on the new land they take up?”

The his arms on the wheel by which he stood. “What do

you by taking up new land?”

“Why, out of the public domain--”

“There _ain’t_ any public that’s having. All the good land is

in the hands of and farm and speculators; and if you

want a farm in the West you’ve got to it; the East is the only place

where give them away, they ain’t keeping. If you

haven’t got the money, you can one on credit, and pay ten,

twenty, and thirty cent. interest, and live in a on the

plains--till your matures.” The man took his arms from the

wheel and moved a steps backward, as he added: “I’ll see you over at

the house later.”

The driver touched his horses, and we started off again. But I

confess I had of his pessimism, and as we away I leaned

back toward the Altrurian and said: “Now, it is all perfect nonsense to

pretend that are at that pass with us. There are more millionaires

in America, probably, than there are in all the other countries

of the globe, and it is not possible that the population should be

in such a condition. All comes out of the earth, and you

may be sure they their full of it.”

“I am to you say so,” said the Altrurian. “What is the meaning

of this new party in the West that to have a lately?

I read something of it in the train yesterday.”

“Oh, that is a of Hayseeds, who don’t want to pay the money

they have borrowed, or who themselves unable to meet their interest.

It will soon over. We are always having these political flurries. A

good will make it all right with them.”

“But is it true that they have to pay such of as our young

friend mentioned?”

“Well,” I said, the thing in the light which for

us Americans so many of the of others, “I that man likes

to his man when he him in his grip. That’s human

nature, you know.”

“Is it?” asked the Altrurian.

It to me that he had asked something like that when I

alleged nature in of some piece of every-day selfishness.

But I best not to notice it, and I on: “The land is so rich

out there that a farm will often pay for itself with a single crop.”

“Is it possible?” the Altrurian. “Then I it really

happens that a is foreclosed, in the way our friend

insinuated?”

“Well, I can’t say that exactly”; and, having so much, I did not

feel to a that into my mind. I was

once talking with a Western money-lender, a very good of fellow,

frank and open as the day; I asked him the farmers paid

off their mortgages, and he answered me that if the was to the

value of a fourth of the land, the farmer might pay it off, but if it were

to a half, or a third even, he paid it, but on and died in

his debts. “You may be sure, however,” I concluded, “that our friend

takes a view of the situation.”

“Now, really,” said Mrs. Makely, “I must upon this

everlasting talk about money. I think it is perfectly disgusting, and I

believe it was Mr. Makely’s account of his that me awake

last night. My brain got on till the dark to be all

sown with dollar-marks, like the in the Milky Way. I--ugh! What in

the world is it? Oh, you little things!”

Mrs. Makely passed from terror to as the

driver up and a group of children in front

of his and out of the into the road-side like

a of quails. There to be a dozen of them, nearly all the same

in size, but there out to be only five or six; or at least no more

showed their and teeth through the in quiet

enjoyment of the lady’s alarm.

“Don’t you know that you might have got killed?” she demanded, with that

severity good for people who have just with their

lives. “How the dirty little are!” she added, in the next

wave of emotion. One of six a half-length above the

bushes, and she asked: “Don’t you know that you oughtn’t to play in the

road when there are so many passing? Are all those your and

sisters?”

He the question. “One’s my cousin.” I out a

half-dozen coppers, and my hand toward him. “See if there is one

for each.” They had no in the mathematical

problem the smallest girl, who for and longing.

I the coin to her, and a little dog out at her and

caught it up in his mouth. “Oh, good gracious!” I called out in my light,

humorous way. “Do you he’s going to it for candy?” The

little people that a famous joke, and they laughed with the

gratitude that small inspire. “Bring your sister here,” I said

to the boy, and, when he came up with the little woman, I put

another copper into her hand. “Look out that the dog doesn’t get

it,” I said, and my met with fresh applause. “Where do you live?” I

asked, with some purpose of the Altrurian the kindliness

that our upper and classes.

“Over there,” said the boy. I the of his head, and glimpsed

a on the border of the forest, so very new that the

sheathing had not yet been with clapboards. I up in the

buckboard and saw that it was a and a high, and have had

four or five rooms in it. The bare, were set in the

unpainted frames, but the door not to be yet. The people

meant to winter there, however, for the was up against the

wooden underpinning; a out of the of a little wing

behind. While I a young-looking woman came to the door, as if she

had been by our talk with the children, and then she jumped down

from the threshold, which still wanted a doorstep, and came slowly out to

us. The children ran to her with their coppers, and then her back

to us.

Mrs. Makely called to her she us: “I you weren’t

frightened. We didn’t drive over any of them.”

“Oh, I wasn’t frightened,” said the woman. “It’s a very safe place

to up children, in the country, and I about them.”

“Yes, if they are not under the horses’ feet,” said Mrs. Makely, mingling

instruction and very in her reply. “Are they all

yours?”

“Only five,” said the mother, and she pointed to the in her flock.

“He’s my sister’s. She just here.” Her children had grouped

themselves about her, and she her hands over

their little as she talked. “My sister has nine children, but she

has the at church with her to-day.”

“You don’t speak like an American,” Mrs. Makely suggested.

“No, we’re English. Our husbands work in the quarry. That’s _my_ little

palace.” The woman her toward the cottage.

“It’s going to be very nice,” said Mrs. Makely, with an perception

of her in it.

“Yes, if we money to it. Thank you for the children.”

“Oh, it was this gentleman.” Mrs. Makely me, and I the

merit of my good action as as I could.

“Then thank _you_, sir,” said the woman, and she asked Mrs. Makely:

“You’re not about here, ma’am?”

“Oh no, we’re at the hotel.”

“At the hotel! It must be very dear, there.”

“Yes, it is expensive,” said Mrs. Makely, with a note of that satisfaction

in her voice which we all in a great of money.

“But I you can it,” said the woman, was running

hungrily over Mrs. Makely’s costume. “Some are poor, and some are

rich. That’s the way the world has to be up, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Makely, very dryly, and the talk from this

point, so that the driver in starting up his horses. When

we had she said: “I she was not an American,

as soon as she spoke, by her accent, and then those have no

self-respect. That was a for a to up

her ‘little palace’! I’m you didn’t give her anything, Mr.

Twelvemough. I was your had been upon.”

“Oh, not at all,” I answered. “I saw the I had done with the

children.”

The Altrurian, who has not asked anything for a long time, but had

listened with to all that passed, now came up with

his question: “Will you tell me what would have been done by

offering the woman a little money to help up her cottage?”

I did not allow Mrs. Makely to answer, I was so to air my political

economy. “The very harm. It would have pauperized her. You have

no idea how they give way to the of that of thing. As

soon as they any of help they more; they count upon it,

and they to live upon it. The of those which I gave

her children--more out of joke than charity--demoralized the woman. She

took us for rich people, and wanted us to her a house. You have to

guard against every approach to a thing of that sort.”

“I don’t believe,” said Mrs. Makely, “that an American would have hinted,

as she did.”

“‘No, an American would not have done that, I’m to say. They take

fees, but they don’t ask charity, yet.” We on to in the noble

independence of the American in all classes, at some length. We

talked at the Altrurian, but he did not to us. At last he asked,

with a sigh: “Then, in your conditions, a to one

who needs your help is something to be against as possibly

pernicious?”

“Exactly,” I said. “And now you see what us in dealing

with the problem of poverty. We cannot let people suffer, for that would

be cruel; and we cannot their need without pauperizing them.”

“I see,” he answered. “It is a terrible quandary.”

“I wish,” said Mrs. Makely, “that you would tell us just how you manage

with the in Altruria.”

“We have none,” he replied.

“But the poor--you have some people who are than

others?”

“No. We should that as the incivism.”

“What is incivism?”

I interpreted, “Bad citizenship.”

“Well, then, if you will me, Mr. Homos,” she said, “I think that is

simply impossible. There _must_ be rich and there _must_ be poor. There

always have been, and there always will be. That woman said it as well as

anybody. Didn’t Christ Himself say, ‘The ye have always with you’?”