Mrs. Morris hesitated for a minute, then she said, earnestly:  “My dear friend, if you could see all the wickedness, and cruelty, and vileness, that is practised in this little town of ours in one night, you could not rest in your bed.”

Mrs. Montague looked dazed.  “I did not dream that it was as bad as that,” she said.  “Are we worse than other towns?”

“No; not worse, but bad enough.  Over and over again the saying is true, one-half the world does not know how the other half lives.  How can all this misery touch you?  You live in your lovely house out of the town.  When you come in, you drive about, do your shopping, make calls, and go home again.  You never visit the poorer 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.”