Annie Kilburn

"But what do you mean by rising? If you mean in material things, in wealth

and the power over others that it gives--"

"I don't mean that altogether. But there are other ways--in cultivation,

refinement, higher tastes and aims than the great mass of people can have.

You have risen yourself, Mr. Peck."

"I have risen, as you call it," he said, with a meek sufferance of the

application of the point to himself. "Those who rise above the necessity of

work for daily bread are in great danger of losing their right relation to

other men, as I said when we talked of this before."

A point had remained in Annie's mind from her first talk with Dr. Morrell.

"Yes; and you said once that there could be no sympathy between the rich

and the poor--no real love--because they had not had the same experience of

life. But how is it about the poor who become rich? They have had the same

experience."

"Too often they make haste to forget that they were poor; they become hard

masters to those they have left behind them. They are eager to identify

themselves with those who have been rich longer than they. Some working-men

who now see this clearly have the courage to refuse to rise. Miss Kilburn,

why should I let you take my child out of the conditions of self-denial and

self-help to which she was born?"

"I don't know," said Annie rather blankly. Then she added impetuously:

"Because I love her and want her. I don't--I _won't_--pretend that

it's for her sake. It's for _my_ sake, though I can take better care

of her than you can. But I'm all alone in the world; I've neither kith nor

kin; nothing but my miserable money. I've set my heart on the child; I must

have her. At least let me keep her a while. I will be honest with you, Mr.

Peck. If I find I'm doing her harm and not good, I'll give her up. I should

wish you to feel that she is yours as much as ever, and if you _will_

feel so, and come often to see her--I--I shall--be very glad, and--" she

stopped, and Mr. Peck rose.

"Where is the child?" he asked, with a troubled air; and she silently led

the way to the kitchen, and left him at the door to Idella and the Boltons.

When she ventured back later he was gone, but the child remained.

Half exultant and half ashamed, she promised herself that she really would

be true as far as possible to the odd notions of the minister in her

treatment of his child. When she undressed Idella for bed she noticed again

the shabbiness of her poor little clothes. She went through the bureau that

held her own childish things once more, but found them all too large for

Idella, and too hopelessly antiquated. She said to herself that on this

point at least she must be a law to herself.