Twelve Men. Theodore Dreiser

you mean to say that you would go down to a depot without money and wait for money to come to you?"

      "Oh, brother," he said, with the softest light in his eyes, "if you only knew what it is to have faith!"

      He laid his hand softly on mine.

      "What is car-fare to New Haven or to anywhere, to Him?"

      "But," I replied materially, "you haven't any car-fare when you go there—how do you actually get it? Who gives it to you? Give me one instance."

      "Why, it was only last week, brother, that a woman wrote me from Maiden, Massachusetts, wanting me to come and see her. She's very sick with consumption, and she thought she was going to die. I used to know her in Noank, and she thought if she could get to see me she would feel better.

      "I didn't have any money at the time, but that didn't make any difference.

      "'Lord,' I said, 'here's a woman sick in Maiden, and she wants me to come to her. I haven't got any money, but I'll go right down to the depot, in time to catch a certain train,' and I went. And while I was standing there a man came up to me and said, 'Brother, I'm told to give you this,' and he handed me ten dollars."

      "Did you know the man?" I exclaimed.

      "Never saw him before in my life," he replied, smiling genially.

      "And didn't he say anything more than that?"

      "No."

      I stared at him, and he added, as if to take the edge off my astonishment:

      "Why, bless your heart, I knew he was from the Lord, just the moment I saw him coming."

      "You mean to say you were standing there without a cent, expecting the Lord to help you, and He did?"

      "'He shall call upon me, and I shall answer him,'" he answered simply, quoting the Ninety-first Psalm.

      This incident was still the subject of my inquiry when a little colored girl came out of the yard and paused a moment before us.

      "May I go down across the bridge, papa?" she asked.

      "Yes," he answered, and then as she tripped away, said:

      "She's one of my adopted children." He gazed between his knees at the sidewalk.

      "Have you many others?"

      "Three."

      "Raising them, are you?"

      "Yes."

      "They seem to think, down in Noank, that living as you do and giving everything away is satisfactory to you but rather hard on your wife and children."

      "Well, it is true that she did feel a little uncertain in the beginning, but she's never wanted for anything. She'll tell you herself that she's never been without a thing that she really needed, and she's been happy."

      He paused to meditate, I presume, over the opinion of his former fellow townsmen, and then added:

      "It's true, there have been times when we have been right where we had to have certain things pretty badly, before they came, but they never failed to come."

      While he was still talking, Mrs. Potter came around the corner of the house and out upon the sidewalk. She was going to the Saturday evening market in the city below.

      "Here she is," he said. "Now you can ask her."

      "What is it?" she inquired, turning a serene and smiling face to me.

      "They still think, down in Noank, that you're not very happy with me," he said. "They're afraid you want for something once in a while."

      She took this piece of neighborly interference in better fashion than most would, I fancy.

      "I have never wanted for anything since I have been married to my husband," she said. "I am thoroughly contented."

      She looked at him and he at her, and there passed between them an affectionate glance.

      "Yes," he said, when she had passed after a pleasing little conversation, "my wife has been a great help to me. She has never complained."

      "People are inclined to talk a little," I said.

      "Well, you see, she never complained, but she did feel a little bit worried in the beginning."

      "Have you a mission or a church here in Norwich?"

      "No, I don't believe in churches."

      "Not in churches?"

      "No. The sight of a minister preaching the word of God for so much a year is all a mockery to me."

      "What do you believe in?"

      "Personal service. Churches and charitable institutions and societies are all valueless. You can't reach your fellowman that way. They build up buildings and pay salaries—but there's a better way." (I was thinking of St. Francis and his original dream, before they threw him out and established monasteries and a costume or uniform—the thing he so much objected to.) "This giving of a few old clothes that the moths will get anyhow, that won't do. You've got to give something of yourself, and that's affection. Love is the only thing you can really give in all this world. When you give love, you give everything. Everything comes with it in some way or other."

      "How do you say?" I queried. "Money certainly comes handy sometimes."

      "Yes, when you give it with your own hand and heart—in no other way. It comes to nothing just contributed to some thing. Ah!" he added, with sudden animation, "the tangles men can get themselves into, the snarls, the wretchedness! Troubles with women, with men whom they owe, with evil things they say and think, until they can't walk down the street any more without peeping about to see if they are followed. They can't look you in die face; can't walk a straight course, but have got to sneak around corners. Poor, miserable, unhappy—they're worrying and crying and dodging one another!"

      He paused, lost in contemplation of the picture he had conjured up.

      "Yes," I went on catechistically, determined, if I could, to rout out this matter of giving, this actual example of the modus operandi of Christian charity. "What do you do? How do you get along without giving them money?"

      "I don't get along without giving them some money. There are cases, lots of them, where a little money is necessary. But, brother, it is so little necessary at times. It isn't always money they want. You can't reach them with old clothes and charity societies," he insisted. "You've got to love them, brother. You've got to go to them and love them, just as they are, scarred and miserable and bad-hearted."

      "Yes," I replied doubtfully, deciding to follow this up later. "But just what is it you do in a needy case? One instance?"

      "Why, one night I was passing a little house in this town," he went on, "and I heard a woman crying. I went right to the door and opened it, and when I got inside she just stopped and looked at me.

      "'Madam,' I said, 'I have come to help you, if I can. Now you tell me what you're crying for.'

      "Well, sir, you know she sat there and told me how her husband drank and how she didn't have anything in the house to eat, and so I just gave her all I had and told her I would see her husband for her, and the next day I went and hunted him up and said to him, 'Oh, brother, I wish you would open your eyes and see what you are doing. I wish you wouldn't do that any more. It's only misery you are creating.' And, you know, I got to telling about how badly his wife felt about it, and how I intended to work and try and help her, and bless me if he didn't up and promise me before I got through that he wouldn't do that any more. And he didn't. He's working today, and it's been two years since I went to him, nearly."

      His eyes were alight with his appreciation of personal service.

      "Yes, that's one instance," I said.

      "Oh, there are plenty of them," he replied. "It's the only way. Down here in New London a couple of winters ago