Contributions were quicker and more spontaneous than the pennies that fall in the twilight upon the outstretched banner of the Salvation armyist; the newcomer took a piece of smooth silver out of a yarn sack and handed it over, following the pace which Jasper had set. Tom gave a dollar and Jim contributed enough to buy a hymn-book. "Gentlemen," said Sanderson, "when I think a man's done wrong I want blood, and sometimes I reckon I'm a little hot-headed about it--my jestice is sorter blind--but when I find he hain't done wrong, w'y I don't love money. Here, nigger, here's fifty cents, and I want you to understand you mustn't kill a dog of mine." With a broad grin, catching the reflection of the silver in his hand, the negro bowed low. "No, sah, I ain't gwine kill no dog o' yo'n. Ef I wuz ter meet yo' dog, I'd say, 'come yeah,' an' I'd hug him right dar. Huh, I neber seed sich putty women folks in my life, an' I knows da's de cause o' deze white folks gibbin' me all dis money. Huh, I wouldn' mine bein' tied up dar ag'in. Mr. Sanderson, I blebe dat yo' name, I'll go an' bury yo' dog fur you. Ladies an' gennermen, under de moon an' yeah 'neath de trees, I wush you good-night." "Poetic duck," said Tom, as the darkey turned away. "Charming in his pleading and in his gallantry," his aunt replied. "Must have been brought up in the white folks' house," Sanderson remarked, and then, bowing to the company, marshalled his boys and marched off. "Margaret," said Jasper, when again they were seated in the wagon, "I am proud of you." "No, you ain't, no sich of a thing, an' you only want a chance to tell me so." He had slipped one arm about her and her head was on his shoulder. "Beautiful," Mrs. Mayfield whispered to Jim. "Ah, what a day this has been to me. And, Mr. Reverend, I have begun to think that there is something good about nearly every one. Even that man whom we thought was such a brute became gentle." "That's true, ma'm, but I think that there's one man that is absolutely depraved. Not the murderer, for he might feed the hungry. Not the wife-beater, for afterward he might beg her forgiveness and kiss her. Not the man that would rob the dead, for he might give a penny to a little child. But the man whose soul is in love with money. I don't mean his soul, for he has none, but the man whose every thought is money, money. He is a murderer, a wife-beater, a robber of the dead. He can sleep at night when he knows that by his shrewdness, which has won him friends among the rich, he has stretched out upon the bare floor a starving child. Christ did not die for that man." "No, Mr. Reverend," she replied, her head hung low; and something dropped upon his hand--a tear. Like two birds Lou and Tom were twittering. He asked her if she had been happy that day because she did not think, and she answered that she had been happy because she had thought.