“What’s your opinion of missionaries,” asked Uncle Enos, after a spell of meditation.
“If I had any money to leave them, I should bequeath it to those who help the heathen here at home, and should let the innocent Feejee Islanders worship their idols a little longer in benighted peace,” answered Christie, in her usual decided way.
“That’s my idee exactly; but it’s uncommon hard to settle which of them that stays at home you’ll trust your money to. You see Betsey was always pesterin’ me to give to charity things; but I told her it was better to save up and give it in a handsome lump that looked well, and was a credit to you. When she was dyin’ she reminded me on’t, and I promised I’d do suthing before I follered. I’ve been turnin’ on’t over in my mind for a number of months, and I don’t seem to find any thing that’s jest right. You’ve ben round among the charity folks lately accordin’ to your tell, now what would you do if you had a tidy little sum to dispose on?”
“Help the Freed people.”
The answer came so quick that it nearly took the old gentleman’s breath away, and he looked at his niece with his mouth open after an involuntary, “Sho!” had escaped him.
“David helped give them their liberty, and I would so gladly help them to enjoy it!” cried Christie, all the old enthusiasm blazing up, but with a clearer, steadier flame than in the days when she dreamed splendid dreams by the kitchen fire.
“Well, no, that wouldn’t meet my views. What else is there?” asked the old man quite unwarmed by her benevolent ardor.
“Wounded soldiers, destitute children, ill-paid women, young people struggling for independence, homes, hospitals, schools, churches, and God’s charity all over the world.”
“That’s the pesky part on ’t: there’s such a lot to choose from; I don’t know much about any of ’em,” began Uncle Enos, looking like a perplexed raven with a treasure which it cannot decide where to hide.
“Whose fault is that, sir?”