Do WeChat on the Internet makes a micro-investment to make money?

Do WeChat on the Internet makes a micro-investment to make money?

Miss Maggie laughed in spite of herself, as she said severely: "Her name, indeed! I'm afraid Mr. Stanley G. Fulton is so in the habit of having his own way that he forgets he is still Mr. John Smith. However, there IS an old schoolmate," she acknowledged demurely.

"Of course there is! Now, write her at once, and tell her you're coming."

"But she—she may not be there."

"Then get her there. She's GOT to be there. And, listen. I think you'd better plan to go pretty soon after I go to South America. Then you can be there when Mr. Stanley G. Fulton arrives in Chicago and can write the news back here to Hillerton. Oh, they'll get it in the papers, in time, of course; but I think it had better come from you first. You see—the reappearance on this earth of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton is going to be of—of some moment to them, you know. There is Mrs. Hattie, for instance, who is counting on the rest of the money next November."

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"Yes, I know, it will mean a good deal to them, of course. Still, I don't believe Hattie is really expecting the money. At any rate, she hasn't said anything about it very lately—perhaps because she's been too busy bemoaning the pass the present money has brought them to."

"Yes, I know," frowned Mr. Smith, with a gloomy sigh. "That miserable money!"

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"No, no—I didn't mean to bring that up," apologized Miss Maggie quickly, with an apprehensive glance into his face. "And it wasn't miserable money a bit! Besides, Hattie has—has learned her lesson, I'm sure, and she'll do altogether differently in the new home. But, Mr. Smith, am I never to—to come back here? Can't we come back—ever?"

"Indeed we can—some time, by and by, when all this has blown over, and they've forgotten how Mr. Smith looks. We can come back then. Meanwhile, you can come alone—a VERY little. I shan't let you leave me very much. But I understand; you'll have to come to see your friends. Besides, there are all those playgrounds for the babies and cleaner milk for the streets, and—"

"Cleaner milk for the streets, indeed!"

"Eh? What? Oh, yes, it WAS the milk for the babies, wasn't it?" he teased. "Well, however that may be you'll have to come back to superintend all those things you've been wanting to do so long. But"—his face grew a little wistful—"you don't want to spend too much time here. You know—Chicago has a few babies that need cleaner milk."

"Yes, I know, I know!" Her face grew softly luminous as it had grown earlier in the afternoon.

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"So you can bestow some of your charity there; and—"

"It isn't charity," she interrupted with suddenly flashing eyes. "Oh, how I hate that word—the way it's used, I mean. Of course, the real charity means love. Love, indeed! I suppose it was LOVE that made John Daly give one hundred dollars to the Pension Fund Fair—after he'd jewed it out of those poor girls behind his counters! And Mrs. Morse went around everywhere telling how kind dear Mr. Daly was to give so much to charity! CHARITY! Nobody wants charity—except a few lazy rascals like those beggars of Flora's! But we all want our RIGHTS. And if half the world gave the other half its rights there wouldn't BE any charity, I believe."

"Dear, dear! What have we here? A rabid little Socialist?" Mr. Smith held up both hands in mock terror. "I shall be petitioning her for my bread and butter, yet!"

"Nonsense! But, honestly, Mr. Smith, when I think of all that money"—her eyes began to shine again—"and of what we can do with it, I—I just can't believe it's so!"

"But you aren't expecting that twenty millions are going to right all the wrongs in the world, are you?" Mr. Smith's eyes were quizzical.

"No, oh, no; but we can help SOME that we know about. But it isn't that I just want to GIVE, you know. We must get behind things—to the causes. We must—"

"We must make the Mr. Dalys pay more to their girls before they pay anything to pension funds, eh?" laughed Mr. Smith, as Miss Maggie came to a breathless pause.