“Then you mean to say that people can't do any good at all with their money?” Annie asked. “Money is a palliative, but it can't cure. It can sometimes create a bond of gratitude perhaps, but it can't create sympathy between rich and poor.” “But _why_ can't it?” “Because sympathy--common feeling--the sense of fraternity--can spring only from like experiences, like hopes, like fears. And money cannot buy these.” He rose, and looked a moment about him, as if trying to recall something. Then, with a stiff obeisance, he said, “Good evening,” and went out, while she remained daunted and bewildered, with the child in her arms, as unconscious of having kept it as he of having left it with her. Mrs. Bolton must have reminded him of his oversight, for after being gone so long as it would have taken him to walk to her parlour and back, he returned, and said simply, “I forgot Idella.” He put out his hands to take her, but she turned perversely from him, and hid her face in Annie's neck, pushing his hands away with a backward reach of her little arm. “Come, Idella!” he said. Idella only snuggled the closer. Mrs. Bolton came in with the little girl's wraps; they were very common and poor, and the thought of getting her something prettier went through Annie's mind. At sight of Mrs. Bolton the child turned from Annie to her older friend. “I'm afraid you have a woman-child for your daughter, Mr. Peck,” said Annie, remotely hurt at the little one's fickleness. Neither Mr. Peck nor Mrs. Bolton smiled, and with some vague intention of showing him that she could meet the poor on common ground by sharing their labours, she knelt down and helped Mrs. Bolton tie on and button on Idella's things. VII. Next morning the day broke clear after the long storm, and Annie woke in revolt against the sort of subjection in which she had parted from Mr. Peck. She felt the need of showing Mrs. Bolton that, although she had been civil to him, she had no sympathy with his ideas; but she could not think of any way to formulate her opposition, and all she could say in offence was, “Does Mr. Peck usually forget his child when he starts home?” “I don't know as he does,” answered Mrs. Bolton simply. “He's rather of an absent-minded man, and I suppose he's like other men when he gets talking.” “The child's clothes were disgracefully shabby!” said Annie, vexed that her attack could come to no more than this. “I presume,” said Mrs. Bolton, “that if he kept more of his money for himself, he could dress her better.” “Oh, that's the way with these philanthropists,” said Annie, thinking of Hollingsworth, in _The Blithedale Romance_, the only philanthropist whom she had really ever known, “They are always ready to sacrifice the happiness and comfort of any one to the general good.”