“I am interested in the Jewish poor,” the girl answered seriously. “But they are in the minority, and are mostly well looked after. What does it matter, though, whether they be Jews or Gentiles; are they not all _God’s poor_? The reason I am particularly interested in Mr. Wilton’s parish, however, is because Ralph Wilton himself is such an energetic man, and so enthusiastic over his work. Enid told me that he actually set to and white-washed his church himself, because there were no funds to pay for it. And do you know why the men in Hoxton respect him? Not for his pulpit eloquence, nor for his straight living, but simply because they knew that, if it came to it, he could fight and rout any one of them--he is a ’versity man, and was one of the Oxford eight. Those are the sort of people he has to deal with--men who admire mere brute force a great deal more than the highest moral or spiritual qualities,--and it is Ralph Wilton’s vocation to tame the savage instincts within them, to raise their standard of the chief aim of life. That is why it would be such a pleasure to me to help on, if it were ever so little, what I consider such really noble effort.” “I suppose it’s the Wiltons themselves who have imbued you with these high-flown notions,” said David, with annoyance, whilst he made up his mind to try and gain entire control over her fortune when they were married. “I should certainly not advise you to waste any money in that way, Celia. Don’t you see, how ever much you can give, it is only a drop in the ocean; and surely you have other things to think of instead of worrying yourself about the poor? What is the use of bothering your head about things that can’t be altered? There always have been poor people, and I suppose there always will be, and it’s my opinion that they are a great deal better off than those poor devils--beg pardon--of the ‘middle’ class, who are obliged to keep up an appearance on next to nothing a year.” The girl was silent, whilst her fingers meditatively pressed the keys, and wandered off into a little minor melody of her own improvisation. She was fond of musing to the accompaniment of a sequence of chords played _pianissimo_; they helped her to think, or at least she imagined they did. “David,” she said presently, as her fingers paused over an interrupted cadence, “have you ever realized the _responsibility of existence_, of being a human creature with mental capacity and a soul? I have, since I came to London; and at times it weighs heavily upon me--the burden and the stress of life.” He glanced at her moodily, and murmured something under his breath which sounded not unlike “Rats!” Aloud he said, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”