me, by implication, with having no views at all!
A remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to
_what_ it is--chiefly, I think, because the remedy is not simple but
extremely complex. It cannot be stated in a few words. It consists in
the wise and prompt application of multiform means--"

"Brother," interrupted Matty with a smile, "do you think I am to be
turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of
words without meaning--at least words vague and incomprehensible?"

"By no means, Matty. I hope that nothing will ever turn you from your
quest after the best method of helping the poor. But my words are not
meant to be vague. By multiform means I would indicate legislation in
numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications, besides
the correction of many erroneous modes of thought--such, for instance,
as the putting of the less before the greater--"

"Tom," again interrupted Matty, "I think it is about time to go and put
on my things."

"Not so, sister dear," said Tom impressively; "I intend that you shall
hear me out. I think that you put the less before the greater when you
talk of `giving' to the poor instead of `considering' the poor. The
greater, you know, includes the less. Consideration includes judicious
giving, and the teaching of Scripture is, not to give to, but to
_consider_, the poor. Now you may be off and get ready--as quickly as
you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!"

With a light laugh and a vigorous step--the result of goodwill to
mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good
circumstances--Matilda Westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of
the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet, a dear little cloak
lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while Tom busied
himself in meditating on the particular passage of God's Word which he
hoped, by the Spirit's influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of
the poor that Christmas morning.

Half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with John Frost
and Sons, Edward Westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right
hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly
juvenile moustache.

Turning his back to the fire he perused the morning paper and enjoyed
himself thoroughly, while James re-arranged the table for another
sumptuous meal.

Ned was by no means a bad fellow. On