“It seems to me,” said Mildred one day as we were strolling through the park, after a morning on Cherry Street; “it seems to me that most people have no imagination. It cannot be that all the pleasant, cultured people whom one meets are so shamefully heartless and indifferent. They simply have not the smallest realization of what is going on in this great city, or any thought of their personal, individual responsibility about it. They hear it all as a tale that is told. They have always heard it. They are used to hearing it. From constant hearing it has become as meaningless to them as the Lord’s Prayer has to most people. How many who dare to say ‘Thy kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven,’ ever actually mean a word that they say, or lift a finger to bring it about?” We walked on in silence. Presently Mildred burst out again: “We are so apt to think that because we eat our three meals a day, and can buy our opera tickets when we feel like it, that all the world is doing well, and that if people are miserable it must somehow be their own fault. “I am convinced that if any people ever needed missionary work, it is the society belles and the well-bred, cultured men of the clubs, who know so little and care still less for this vast multitude of the ignorant and suffering and fallen here at their very doors, and who look with calm indifference on these hideous sores upon our modern life. “I promise you, Ruby, after I get some of my irons out of the fire, I mean to devote myself to a crusade to rescue what George Eliot calls the ‘perishing upper classes.’ “But ah,” she sighed, “it needs genius for that, and I have only money. Oh, I would give half my millions if I had the scathing pen of a Carlyle, or the power to plead for humanity like Mrs. Stowe or Walter Besant or Dickens; if I could stir the hearts of the people with flaming words that should help to sweep away the sloth, indifference, and contemptible arrogance that makes one tenth of us forget that the other nine tenths are our brothers and sisters!” “If every one were as self-sacrificing as you, Mildred”—I began; but she interrupted me almost sternly. “Hush! never say that to me. What have I ever sacrificed? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I have always had comforts; now I have everything that heart can wish. In giving to others I deny myself nothing. Never dare to let me for a moment imagine that I am doing anything more than the simplest, most obvious duty. I must not cheat my conscience. I should be the veriest hypocrite if I allowed myself to think that I am generous. Is there anything generous in paying one’s debts, particularly when one has not had to earn the money with which to pay them?