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Over at the bookcase Mr. Smith was abstractedly opening and shutting the book in his hand. His gaze was out the window near him. He had not touched the books on the shelves for some time.

"And look at how I've tried and see what it has come to—Bessie so high-headed and airy she makes fun of us, and Fred a gambler and a drunkard, and 'most a thief. And it's all that horrid hundred thousand dollars!"

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The book in Mr. Smith's hand slipped to the floor with a bang; but no one was noticing Mr. Smith.

"Oh, Hattie, don't blame the hundred thousand dollars," cried Miss

"Jim says it was, and Fred does, too. They talked awfully. Fred said it was all just the same kind of a way that I'd tried to make folks call Jim 'James.' He said I'd been trying to make every single 'Jim' we had into a 'James,' until I'd taken away all the fun of living. And I suppose maybe he's right, too." Mrs. Hattie sighed profoundly. "Well, anyhow, I'm not going to do it any more. There isn't any fun in it, anyway. It doesn't make any difference how hard I tried to get ahead, I always found somebody else a little 'aheader' as Benny calls it. So what's the use?"

"There isn't any use—in that kind of trying, Hattie."

"No, I suppose there isn't. Jim said I was like the little boy that they asked what would make him the happiest of anything in the world, and he answered, 'Everything that I haven't got.' And I suppose I have been something like that. But I don't see as I'm any worse than other folks. Everybody goes for money; but I'm sure I don't see why—if it doesn't make them any happier than it has me! Well, I must be going." Mrs. Hattie rose wearily. "We shall begin to pack the first of the month. It looks like a mountain to me, but Jim and Fred say they'll help, and—"

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Mr. Smith did not hear any more, for Miss Maggie and her guest had reached the hall and had closed the door behind them. But when Miss Maggie returned, Mr. Smith was pacing up and down the room nervously.

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"Well," he demanded with visible irritation, as soon as she appeared, "will you kindly tell me if there is anything—desirable—that that confounded money has done?"

Miss Maggie looked up in surprise.

"You mean—Jim Blaisdell's money?" she asked.

"I mean all the money—I mean the three hundred thousand dollars that those three people received. Has it ever brought any good or happiness—anywhere?"

"Oh, yes, I know," smiled Miss Maggie, a little sadly. "But—" Her countenance changed abruptly. A passionate earnestness came to her eyes. "Don't blame the money—blame the SPENDING of it! The money isn't to blame. The dollar that will buy tickets to the movies will just as quickly buy a good book; and if you're hungry, it's up to you whether you put your money into chocolate eclairs or roast beef. Is the MONEY to blame that goes for a whiskey bill or a gambling debt instead of for shoes and stockings for the family?"