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 fancy ball.

I forget the title of the charity, but I remember that every lady who sold more than ten tickets received an autograph letter of thanks from the Duchess who was the president.

The tickets were twelve and sixpence each and included light refreshments and a very substantial supper.