So they went into the little bedroom, and boudoir, and looked over them. Of course Peter found a tremendous number of things of interest. There were her pictures, most of them her own purchases in Europe; and her books and what she thought of them; and her thousand little knick-knacks of one kind and another. Peter wasn’t at all in a hurry to see the rest of the house. “These are the photographs of my real friends,” said Leonore, “except yours. I want you to give me one to complete my rack.” “I haven’t had a photograph taken in eight years, and am afraid I have none left.” “Then you must sit.” “Very well. But it must be an exchange.” Peter almost trembled at his boldness, and at the thought of a possible granting. “Do you want mine?” “Very much.” “I have dozens,” said Leonore, going over to her desk, and pulling open a drawer. “I’m very fond of being taken. You may have your choice.” “That’s very difficult,” said Peter, looking at the different varieties. “Each has something the rest haven’t. You don’t want to be generous, and let me have these four?” “Oh, you greedy!” said Leonore, laughing. “Yes, if you’ll do something I’m going to ask you.” Peter pocketed the four. “That is a bargain,” he said, with a brashness simply disgraceful in a good business man. “Now, what is it?” “Miss De Voe told me long ago about your savings-bank fund for helping the poor people. Now that I have come into my money, I want to do what she does. Give a thousand dollars a year to it—and then you are to tell me just what you do with it.” “Of course I’m bound to take it, if you insist. But it won’t do any good. Even Miss De Voe has stopped giving now, and I haven’t added anything to it for over five years.” “Why is that?” “You see, I began by loaning the fund to people who were in trouble, or who could be boosted a little by help, and for three or four years, I found the money went pretty fast. But by that time people began to pay it back, with interest often, and there has hardly been a case when it hasn’t been repaid. So what with Miss De Voe’s contributions, and the return of the money, I really have more than I can properly use already. There’s only about eight thousand loaned at present, and nearly five thousand in bank.” “I’m so sorry!” said Leonore. “But couldn’t you give some of the money, so that it wouldn’t come back?” “That does more harm than good. It’s like giving opium to kill temporary pain. It stops the pain for the moment, but only to weaken the system so as to make the person less able to bear pain in the future. That’s the trouble with most of our charity. It weakens quite as much as it helps.” “I have thought about this for five years as something I should do. I’m so grieved.” And Leonore looked her words.