“A very sad state of affairs,” said Mr. Ashford, but he could hardly help smiling a little at Marty's profound indignation.
“I should think the people in this country couldn't sit still and see things going on in such a way,” she said. “Why, do you know, Miss Agnes says there are places where the poor people are asking for missionaries, and there are none to send, because there's not money enough to support them. I should think that people would just go and take all their money out of the banks and send it to the Board. Then there would be so much money pouring in that the Board would have to sit up nights to count it.”
“No, no; that wouldn't do,” said her father. “Little girls don't understand these matters.”
“Well, but, papa,” she said, coming close to him, dragging her coat after her by one sleeve, “don't you think if everybody were to give as the Lord has prospered them, there would be nearly enough money to do the right thing by the heathen?”
“Yes, there's something in that,” answered Mr. Ashford, looking with a queer kind of a smile at his wife, over Marty's head. “But you can't compel every one to do what is right. All you can do is to attend to your own contributions.”
“Well,” said Marty, half crying in her earnestness, “I started out to give tenths; but as long as there are so many heathen, and so few missionaries, I'm going to give halves or wholes. I can't stand tenths.”
And she marched off and put every cent she had in the red box. When she got her weekly allowance, that also went in. Her mother suggested that she would better not give all her money away at once.
“I think,” she said, “it would be much better to do as you started to do, and not give in that impulsive way.”
But Marty was sure she should not regret it, and declared she was going to give every bit of money she ever should have to send missionaries to the heathen. She was very full of ardor for about two days, though on Monday something occurred that made her feel very bad. She was playing with Freddie in the morning, and when schooltime came he began to whimper, and holding her dress, pleaded,
“Don't go, Marty; play wis me.”