“Why, bless my soul, the fortunes bequeathed to all the novel-heroes created this century, would not begin to supply them!”

Redfield shook his head decidedly when he came to this part of his monologue, and put the gold and silver coins back into his pocket.

“I hate poor people—­I positively do!  I despise their pale faces and cadaverous expression.  I detest straggling little girls who come up to you and say their mothers have been bedridden for three months, and all their little brothers and sisters are down with the fever.  I know it’s a lie.  I can detect at once the professional whine, and am certain the story has been repeated by rote a hundred times that day; but for the life of me I cannot put out from my mind the imaginary picture of the half-furnished room in some filthy back street, with a forlorn woman with red hair stretched on a bed of straw, and half a dozen or more red-haired children piled about promiscuously.

“There is a wretched little German girl, always managing to have a boil either on her forehead or the back of her neck,—­I believe in my soul it’s from overfeeding,—­who follows my footsteps like a misanthropic vampire.  By what ingenuity she manages to cajole me out of my money I know not, but I positively assert that in the last fortnight, according to her account, her unhappy mother has suffered from eleven different incurable diseases.  My God! what a complication of misfortune!  Why not let them starve?  When a man is not capable of maintaining a family, why in Heaven’s name does he ever have one?

“I think I will follow the maxims of political economists and all respectable members of society, and vote beggars a nuisance.  I wonder how many people to-day, praying for deliverance by Christ’s ’agony and bloody sweat,’ by his ‘cross and passion,’ his ’precious death and burial,’ his ‘glorious resurrection and ascension,’ and the ’coming of the Holy Ghost,’ don’t?

“This is a charitable frame of mind to precede a Christmas morning.  When did I contract the habit of talking to myself?

“I must be impressed with the two grand reasons of the man we all know of:  first, I like to talk to a sensible man, and second, I like to hear a sensible man talk.

“I wonder if there is not something under the surface in Sol Smith’s charity sermon?  I rather like its pithy style: 

“’He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.  Now, brethren, if you are satisfied with the security, down with the dust.’

“I once repeated it to a gaunt little parson, and his look of unmitigated horror caused me to hide my diminished head.  I knew from his manner—­he did not condescend a reply—­what chamber in the Inferno was being heated up for my especial benefit.  Well, well! the sentiment is doubtless creditable to his head and heart.

“What a pity it is I am not one of the ‘good’ people!  What an agonizingly cerulean expression I would wear, to be sure!