My thesis, on “Heredity,” consisted mainly of quotations from authorities I had consulted in the Public Library. The original matter in it, feeble and inadequate, was chiefly a protest against the marriage of the unfit. I was ardently espousing the cause of Eugenics before there was such a cause, or at least before Galton’s seed-sowing had found a friendly soil. There was an unscientific portion about pre-natal influence, and plenty of advice to prospective parents as to the need of influencing the unborn, so as to make them beautiful of body and soul. There is nothing, I am convinced, that the Young Person hesitates to advise humanity about just as he himself is about to take his plunge into the sea of life. Slumbering somewhere in the dusty archives of Boston University is my lengthy thesis on Heredity--slumbering? but a thing has to live to slumber--this offspring of mine never had any life--it was still-born. Shortly after Commencement I went to W---- to visit a former class-mate, and also to see Dr. Fenton who had “located” there. He had called at Dr. Carson’s on my arrival, and it was agreed that she and I would go to see him the next day in his new office. That afternoon it popped into my head to dress up as an old woman and make him think for a moment that he had a new patient. Combing my hair down over my ears, putting on spectacles, and a black gown, bonnet, and veil, I looked very like a little elderly widow. Dr. Carson waited at a near-by drug-store. The lame woman in black hobbled up the steps to the young doctor’s office. His door was ajar. (He was expecting Dr. Carson and me.) I purposely halted as he came toward me, that he might take in my general appearance before I spoke, the better to aid the disguise. He looked, I thought, a bit disappointed not to see his friends, but the look gave place to one of quiet attention, and even a gleam of pleasure at acquiring a new patient. I saw as he invited me to be seated that he had no suspicion of me, and consequently, could scarcely articulate for laughter. Not having expected to deceive him, except for an instant, I had not thought up a story, but, suppressing my giggles, and assuming the Irish brogue, I began a story about my sick daughter. His questions, so to the point, so professional, so serious, nearly convulsed me, but turning my suppressed laughter into pretended crying, to gain time to concoct a story, I claimed to be too distressed to talk about what was troubling me.